Win or Die
by Suz Singer
Summary: [HIATUS] Lancelot rescues Sansa, a Saxon Princess from Marius' estate, and they fall in love. As Sansa struggles with her allegiances, she will have to save what she loves most. And the million dollar question is, what does she love most? Her Knight or her family?
1. Part 1 Chapter 1: The Saxon Spy

**Win or Die****  
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**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa. **

**Part 1**

**Chapter 1**

Snow fell lightly, sticking to the ground. Hoof-beats shook the ground, as something approached. It was a beautiful day, the sun shining brightly even as the snow fell. But down in Marius Honorius' dungeons, there was no way of knowing that.

The first prisoner, a young boy by the name of Lucan, shivered from inside a minuscule concrete pit, clutching his broken arm close to his side, not that he could move more than a few inches. The second, a young Woad woman, Guinevere, occupied a cell. She glared hard at the priests that walked back and forth. Black and blue bruises covered her body, and she gingerly flexed her broken fingers, before wincing.

The last living prisoner, another young woman, was being dragged back to her own cell, her legs trailing behind her, the sound of her shackles scraping following her. This woman had been there longer than any of the prisoners, and yet the priests tortured her with never-ending vigor.

She was referred to as the 'Saxon spy'. From what Guinevere could figure out, the other woman had been captured by Roman guards, and was labeled a spy due to her obvious heritage. Guinevere sincerely doubted that the woman was a spy, or guilty of any crime. She never spoke a word to the priests or Romans, never divulged her name. The only sounds the priests were treated to were her screams.

Sometimes she spoke, to her fellow prisoners, inquiring after them. She never answered their queries about her. "Guin'ver," a throaty, heavily accented voice came. Guinevere shifted, as the Saxon woman called to her. "Hurt?" She questioned. They could not see each other; unless one or the other was outside their cell. Solid brick walls separated them, but Guinevere could still hear her loud and clear.

"I will be fine. And you, Saxon? Are you hurt?" Guinevere asked in reply. There was nothing else the Woad woman could call her by, no other name had been given. And Guinevere did not force the information from her, and she did not seem to mind the nick-name.

She heard a heavy sigh, but no answer was given. "Saxon?" Guinevere ventured. The Saxon woman liked to pretend she didn't understand at times; but Guinevere knew full well she did.

A sigh echoed again. "Guin'ver. Don't worry about me." She said, firmly, her voice slightly slurred. Guinevere opened her mouth to object, when a loud noise echoed throughout the dungeon.

"Who are these defilers of the Lord's temple?" One priest's voice shouted from the entrance.

"Out of the way." Arthur Castus ordered, shoving the priest aside. His most trusted knight, Lancelot, a tall man with dark eyes and dark curls peered at their surroundings with disgust.

"This is the work of your god? Is this how he answers your prayers?" Lancelot scoffed. Arthur glared at his friend.

"See if there's any still alive," he ordered.

"By the smell, they're all dead," Lancelot retorted, but went ahead, peering into the cage-like cells low to the ground. Dagonet found a boy, and Arthur a young woman. Lancelot stared at the body of a woman, unable to determine if she was live or dead- she was so still. He drew back in shock, when her eyes opened, revealing mismatching eyes of blue and green, resting on him.

Lancelot drew back, to swing his sword against the chains that held the cell closed, the heavy metal grate crashing to the ground with a loud boom. Lancelot reached in, taking hold of the woman, gently, and pulling her out. She let out a moan of pain at this, before Lancelot set her atop a table, so he could see her condition.

Her long, blonde hair was dirty and matted, touched with an unmistakable red tint. Lancelot had no doubt where it was from. She was far too thin, and boasted a sickly pallor. Bruises littered her body, and unhealed marks wept on her back. The clothes that covered her meager form were torn to mere rags, barely covering her most private parts. There were shackles on both her wrists and ankles, cutting into the tender flesh there.

"How dare you set foot in this holy place!" a priest shouted, moving to yank the woman from Lancelot. Lancelot swung the sword at the priest, ending his life swiftly.

"That was a man of god!" Arthur exclaimed in outrage.

"Not my god!" Lancelot retorted, snatching keys from the hip of the fallen priest, to free the woman from her shackles. As the shackles fell from her limbs, she made a sound akin to pain, the metal leaving dark, indented marks behind. Lancelot stared at this, with poorly concealed rage. He turned to Arthur, who held the Woad woman. "Even your god must have laws against such monstrosities as this, Arthur," He said, with a sneer.

Lancelot turned to the woman, who had not taken her eyes off of him, for even a moment. "Can you walk?" he asked her, gently. She shook her head, lowering her gaze. Lancelot let his eyes wander to her bare legs- they trembled as they merely hung off the table.

"They need water, and to get out of here," Dagonet announced, as he headed to the entrance. Lancelot followed suit, carrying the woman outside, where Galahad handed him a water-skin which Lancelot immediately raised to the woman's lips. Her hands raised, tentatively, guiding it to her lips, as the precious liquid ran down her parched throat.

"What is the meaning of this! Put them back, now!" Marius Honorius exclaimed. Lancelot raised his head to glare at the Roman, as the woman's fingers curled into his shirt, her eyes widening in fear of him. Lancelot placed a hand against her back protectively.

"They are pagans in this land!" Marius shouted.

"So are we," Gawain retorted, his hair whipping in the wind.

Marius turned to Arthur. "You are Roman. You understand," he said, confidently. "These people refuse to follow the life I-God has set for them. They must pay for their sins."

"You mean these people refuse to be your serfs," Arthur retorted.

Lancelot refused to hear another word, turning his back, and lifting the woman into his saddle, before swinging up behind her.

Marius widened at the sight of the blonde woman, eyes filling with rage. "You! You are still alive! How! Artorius, that is a Saxon spy!" He ranted.

All the knights looked at each other, and to the woman in front of Lancelot, skeptically. "If she's a spy, I'm the bloody Queen of Britain," Lancelot spewed, as he wrapped his cloak around the girl's shivering form.

Marius looked so offended that he looked as if he'd actually strike Lancelot if he could, but he wasn't stupid. His wife, Fulcinia, put a hand on his shoulder, to murmur to him. But he turned his rage to her, slapping her with force enough to send her sprawling. "You kept them alive!" He shouted, as if that explained everything.

Arthur abandoned the Woad woman to smash his fist into Marius' face as punishment. "We're leaving," Arthur said, through a twisted grimace. "You will either pack your things now, or we will drag you behind the caravan,"

The woman twisted in front of Lancelot, curling against him, seeking the heat he radiated through his armor. Lancelot adjusted his cloak, pulling it around her to cover her, leaving only her head to the cold air.

The caravan began to move, and the knights set off. Galahad and Gawain rode on either side of Lancelot, curious glances directed at the woman in his arms. Lancelot rolled his eyes, as he steered his horse one-handed, the other against the woman's back.

"I bet you're a pretty little thing underneath all that dirt," Gawain said, kindly. "All you need is a hot bath, warm meal, and some sunshine," he mused, grinning at the woman. She just stared at him, before lifting her eyes to Lancelot's face.

"Is this anytime to be flirting, Gawain?" Galahad teased, the men laughing, and the woman saw a smile tug at her dark knight's lips.

"Why does she not speak?" Galahad asked, curiously, turning serious.

Lancelot looked down at her with a furrowed eyebrow, as if he hadn't considered it before. He'd assumed she'd been just too traumatized to say anything. But as he looked down at her, from where she curled into his lap, clutching his sleeve in her fingers, her mismatched eyes were much too calm for that. "Did they hurt you so you could not speak?" Lancelot questioned, barely able to contain his rage at the thought of it. She shook her head, slowly. "Then why do you not speak?" He asked, curiously.

The Woad woman looked up. "She doesn't speak Latin well," Guinevere called back to them, at which the woman gave a confirming nod.

"Oh?" Lancelot prompted.

"She understands it well enough, but she speaks it poorly- her accent is heavy." Guinevere explained, further.

Lancelot turned his attention to the woman in his arms. "What is your native language?" He asked.

She lifted her eyes to him, seeming rather reluctant to answer. "Saxon," she answered, slowly, her heavy accent making the 'x' sound more like an 's'.

"And your name, Saxon?" Lancelot inquired, an eyebrow lifted at her.

She took a heavy breath, before answering, "Sansa," she spoke, looking to gage their reactions, as if waiting for someone to recognize the name.

Lancelot smiled. "Sounds like you," he said, which made her smile, though it looked painful, with dried, cracked lips.

"So it is the beautiful Lady Sansa who joins us on our journey," Galahad piped up. The two knights seemed to make it their mission to put a smile on her face.

To their credit, Sansa giggled, lightly. She flapped her hand at him. "Not a lady," she insisted. She pointed her finger to herself, "Sansa. No..." She then went on, before trailing off, as if searching for the right word.

"No title?" Gawain volunteered, to which Sansa nodded, vigorously.

"I am just Sansa," she supplemented.

"Well, just Sansa, my name is Gawain," the knight with long, dark blond hair remarked.

"And I am Galahad," said the other knight, the youngest looking one, with a short beard and brown curls.

"Well met, Gala'ad, Gawain," Sansa called to them, as the knights grinned at her. Sansa redirected her attention to the knight who held her, her savior. "Name?" She asked, gazing up at the dark-haired, dark-eyed knight expectantly.

"I'm Lancelot," he rumbled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. The girl was far more cheerful than he would have expected.

"Lancelo'?" She posed, questioningly.

The knights around her chuckled, especially Lancelot, at the mispronunciation. "Lancelot," the dark-haired knight corrected.

Sansa tried again and again, only butchering his name even worse, making the knights burst out into giggles.

"For the gods' sake, Lancelot, just let her call you Lance," Bors grumbled from the horse in front of them.

"Lance?" Sansa piped up, questioningly.

As Lancelot glared at the other knight's back, he nodded at Sansa. "You may call me that," he said, with a dip of his head.

Sansa pointed at Bors. "Name?" She requested, seriously.

"Bors," Lancelot answered. Sansa softly repeated the name, before gesturing to the next Knight in her line of sight. "Dagonet," this one she absolutely butchered, but Lancelot found it too amusing to correct her. "And that is Tristan, our scout. Scary fellow, really," he added. At this, Tristan turned to look at them, with a raised brow.

Sansa smiled at him, raising a hand in greeting, noting with satisfaction that amusement lifted the sides of his mouth, ever so slightly, and he nodded to her in acknowledgement, before looking away.

"And him?" Sansa asked, pointing a shaking finger at the man who held Guinevere.

"Arthur," Lancelot answered, softly. "He is our commander, a great man." He told her.

"He is Roman, no?" Sansa asked, skeptically.

Lancelot nodded. "And half-Briton, too. He is a good man, Sansa. Not like most Romans. He would give his life before he'd let an innocent's be taken," He explained.

"If you say so," she murmured, settling back against Lancelot's chest, clearly unconvinced.

Apparently the Saxon woman wasn't a fan of Romans. Lancelot couldn't blame her, when he clearly wasn't a fan either. Sansa was quiet for quite a while, he could feel her chest rising and falling with every breath.

Lancelot let the silence rest, he wasn't one to fill every moment with meaningless chatter. At least, he thought so. Some of the Knights would disagree, but Lancelot found peace in this silence, with Sansa in his arms.

It started to grow dark outside, and Arthur called for them to stop for the night. Gawain came to Lancelot's horse, so Sansa could be lowered to his arms. Sansa seemed reluctant to leave Lancelot, who removed her fingers from his sleeve. "It's fine," he promised her. "We won't get down from this horse, unless Gawain helps us," Lancelot told her.

With that assurance, Sansa nodded, allowing herself to be lowered into Gawain's arms, from where Lancelot swung down beside them. Immediately, Sansa reached for Lancelot, who, after trading a look with Gawain, shrugged, and took Sansa from him, and walked off. "Where do we go?" Sansa asked, with a frown.

"To a wagon. Dagonet needs to have a look at you, see how badly hurt you are," Lancelot answered.

"I am not hurt," Sansa insisted, wriggling uncomfortably. Lancelot gave her an incredulous look.

"At the very least, you need a hot meal and some rest. You will get it there," Lancelot told her.

"Guin'ver? Lucan?" She inquired, and Lancelot chuckled, finding endless amusement from her accent, while she gave him a confused look.

"They will be there," Lancelot promised, as he ducked over to the wagon Dagonet had deemed the 'medical' wagon. Guinevere and the boy named Lucan were already inside, being looked over by the Roman lady Fulcinia, and Dagonet.

Lancelot lowered his charge onto the third pile of furs, and went to leave, when she caught hold of his cloak. "Where do you go?" She questioned, anxiety and fear in her eyes at the thought of him leaving her.

"I have to take care of my horse, Sansa," Lancelot said, exasperated. "I will be back, I promise," He told her, firmly. Sansa let go of his cloak, turning her eyes to the ceiling of the wagon. With an uneasy feeling, Lancelot left the wagon, to attend to his horse's needs, as well as his own. Sansa only waited a few minutes, before Dagonet came to her side.

"Lady Sansa, will you allow me to examine you?" the gentle giant of a knight asked, softly. Sansa nodded. At that, he began to sponge dirt from her skin, uncovering bruises and scars that rivaled that of the knights, even. "Are all of these from your imprisonment?" Dagonet asked, gently, concerned by the amount of scars he found. Sansa shook her head, slowly.

"No."


	2. Part 1 Chapter 2: Scars

**Win or Die**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa. **

**Part 1**

**Chapter 2**

Lancelot returned to the medical wagon, approximately an hour after he'd left Sansa in Dagonet's care, carrying food for both Dagonet and Sansa.

He pushed the curtain back, ducking into the wagon, to see Dagonet look up from where he sat at Sansa's side. Sansa lay on her side, the length of her naked back covered in lash marks, which Dagonet was in the process of covering with a poultice.

Neither looked up at his entrance, as Lancelot silently shuffled in, the spaces where Guinevere and Lucan had occupied previously were empty, leaving the wagon empty except for Lancelot, Dagonet, and Sansa.

The latter lay soundlessly and unmoving on the furs, not making a single sound as Dagonet touched wounds both old and new. A new dress encased most of her figure, though it lay around her waist, waiting for the healer to be done with her back.

Lancelot settled down at the edge of the wagon, lifting a piece of bread to his mouth, chewing idly. He didn't let himself react to what he could see. The scars infuriated him, but there was little he could do about it now. What was done, was done.

Dagonet set aside the poultice, and began to press linen atop it, bandaging her back. Then he turned, giving Lancelot a very meaningful glare, which made the knight turn around, so Dagonet could help Sansa pull the rest of her dress up.

Lancelot turned back, when Dagonet took his share of the food, and left. Lancelot crept closer into the wagon, to sit beside Sansa.

She had received a bath, Lancelot noted, as her skin was now a healthy pink, marred only by scars, both old and new; her hair was long and flaxen, like cornsilk, glinting in the light. Her mismatched eyes of both green and blue were weary as they rested upon him, but still reached a hand towards him, which Lancelot took, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Here, I've brought you dinner," he remarked, moving to help the young woman sit up. Sansa grimaced, as she rested her back tentatively against the wooden side of the wagon, before accepting the food. She stared at it for a moment, as if she didn't know what to do with it, before she dug in with such ferocity that it startled Lancelot.

"Slow down, no-one's going to steal it from you," Lancelot chuckled. Sansa paused, giving Lancelot a reproachful look that meant she suspected exactly that. But she did slow her eating, glaring at Lancelot all the while.

Arthur came in, as Sansa finished her meal. At the Roman's approach, she scooted into Lancelot's side, entwining her fingers into his tunic once again.

Arthur held up his hands. "I would not harm you, Lady Sansa. And I doubt Lancelot would let me even if I wanted to. I just want to talk," he promised. Sansa looked up at the dark knight, who nodded.

"Then talk," Sansa remarked, haughtily, even though her anxiety was ripe in the air.

"I would like to know your story." Arthur requested, gently.

"I was captured on that Roman's land. That is how I came to be here," Sansa said, quickly. Arthur looked frustrated, but Lancelot began to speak.

"You looked frightened when I asked your name. As if it would mean something to us. Who are you?" Lancelot questioned her.

Sansa's grip tightened on his tunic. "I am the daughter of Cerdic. He is the man who leads his army against you," she answered, placing her gaze on the floor.

"So we have a Saxon princess among us," Lancelot said, dryly.

"Can you tell us anything about him?" Arthur asked, leaning forward eagerly.

Sansa shook her head. "No," she replied, quietly.

"No?!" Lancelot demanded, angrily, pulling away from the girl.

"No!" Sansa repeated, her eyes filling with anger. "There is nothing I can reveal that would help you! He has never been bested, he is fearless, heartless, and cruel! He places value in only things Saxon!" She hissed, turning away from him.

"You. You are Saxon." Arthur spoke, as if it was revelation. Sansa and Lancelot gave him a questioning, skeptical look. "He places value in you," Arthur explained.

Sansa's face grew cold, closing herself off from the two men. "If you think to ransom me to end the war, Roman, think upon this: my father would only respond in order to have the honor of killing me with his own hands. And then he would attack anyway," Sansa spoke.

"What do you mean? Why would he want to kill you?" Arthur questioned, heatedly.

"I've been gone for weeks. He probably thinks I betrayed him and ran away," Sansa answered, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Did you betray him?" Lancelot questioned, his eyes serious and dark.

Sansa shook her head. "I have feared him too much to dare," she replied, softly.

"Fear does nor breed loyalty," Arthur said, harshly.

"No," Sansa agreed. "But it breeds obedience," she retorted, bitterly. Both men looked chastened, their eyes sad, as the young woman stared at the hands in her lap.

"You do not have to go back, Sansa. You are welcome to stay with us," Arthur told her, gently, standing.

Sansa did not look up, her gaze intent on her hands, as she examined her fingers. Those were mere words and nothing more to her; she would have to return to her father one day, by her choice or not. Arthur sighed, and Lancelot motioned for him to go. Arthur rushed out, relievedly, as Lancelot scooted closer to Sansa, putting an arm around her, pulling her close.

Sansa offered no protest, resting her head against his chest. "I would not let him, or anyone, take you away," he promised, softly. Sansa lifted her head to look at him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

Lancelot was filled with this strange, undeniable urge to kiss her. He barely knew the woman, yet he'd fully taken her under his wing. It was entirely unlike Lancelot, who was the man-whore, the heartbreaker.

He lowered his face to Sansa's, pressing his lips gently to hers. Sansa let her eyes flutter shut, as she responded to the kiss, letting her lips move in tandem with his, as a warm feeling blossomed in her chest.

After a minute or two, Sansa placed a hand on Lancelot's chest, making him draw back. Neither spoke, to regain their breath. "Why..." Sansa began, before trailing off. "Why do you kiss me, Lance?" She asked.

"Why? Did you mind?" Lancelot joked, a hint of mischief in his dark eyes. Sansa merely cocked her head to the side, inquiringly. Lancelot sobered at the gaze. "I don't know, Sansa. It just felt right," he explained, taking her hand and entwining their fingers.

"I agree," Sansa replied, as Lancelot lowered his face to kiss her once more. This kiss wasn't as soft, as delicate; as the first was. This kiss was deeper, more heated. Sansa felt light-headed, but feverishly returned the kiss as best she could. Lancelot felt her inexperience keenly, in the tentative way she returned his kisses and caresses.

When this kiss ended, Lancelot pulled Sansa closer, settling her in his lap. He found it adorable, the way she so neatly fit underneath his chin. "I've never been with a man before, Lance," She mentioned, quietly, shifting her gaze to the floor.

Lancelot chuckled. "That I can believe. And I don't think it matters," he replied, wrapping his arms around her. Sansa merely smiled, shifting closer to the man. Lancelot closed his eyes, leaning back against the wagon's wall, letting the feeling of warmth and comfort envelope him.


	3. Part 1 Chapter 3: Nine

**Win or Die**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa. **

**Part 1**

**Chapter 3**

The morning sky was just beginning to lighten, and snow was beginning to coat the ground, and the camp had yet to wake. Outside one particular wagon, two knights had their bedrolls laid out- the first, Dagonet, shared his bedroll with the young Lucan; the second, Lancelot, shared his with Sansa. The latter pair were cuddled close, burrowed underneath Lancelot's cloak. Their sleep was peaceful, undisturbed.

But that wasn't to last.

Suddenly, Lucan was seized from Dagonet, and Sansa from Lancelot. Marius Honorius held a knife to Lucan's throat, as did one of his soldiers to Sansa's. Both Lancelot and Dagonet jumped up, but were unable to do anything, for fear of something happening to their charges.

"I have the boy!" Marius shouted, as if trying to ward off the knights approaching.

"Kill him!" Someone shouted.

"No, don't! Let him go!"

"Kill him now!"

Amidst all the shouting, an arrow struck Marius in the throat, forcing his release of Lucan, who ran straight into Dagonet's arms. Guinevere strode forward quickly, drawing another arrow to her bow, pointing it at Sansa's captor.

The other soldiers, along with the one who held Sansa captive, looked around, their determination wavering at their master's death. Lancelot drew his swords, beginning to approach them; and the soldier who held Sansa pressed the knife tighter against her throat, drawing a yelp from the girl as a line of blood appeared on her throat.

Lancelot sneered, his eyes dark. "I would release her, Roman, before I separate your head from your shoulders." He threatened, stepping forward again.

The soldier trembled at the very sight, and threw Sansa to the ground, before he took off running. Before he made ten feet; he fell, with an arrow in his back. This time, the arrow came from Tristan, who nodded to Lancelot.

Lancelot swept over to Sansa, drawing her to her feet, and into his arms. "Your hands seem to be better," Lancelot commented, dryly, to Guinevere, before he gently grabbed Sansa's chin, lifting it to examine the cut.

Bors stalked around the remaining soldiers. "Artorius!" He shouted, before growling at the soldiers, "Do we have a problem? Huh?!"

Arthur swept in, looking in disgust at the soldiers. "You have a choice. You help or you die. Lay down your weapons," He demanded, angrily. It took only a moment of indecision, before they gave in, and laid down the weapons.

"Lancelot," Arthur called, gaining his friend's attention. "Tend to her," he requested, gesturing to Sansa.

Lancelot merely nodded in response, guiding Sansa into a wagon. Lancelot found a rag and dampened it, before drawing Sansa to him. He cleaned the cut with a practiced ease. Then he took his time, examining it, trying to decide whether the cut needed any more treatment.

"Tis a scratch, Lance, leave it be," Sansa said, crossly, as Lancelot leaned into examine it yet again. Lancelot sighed, tossing the rag to the side.

"Can you blame me for being concerned, Sansa? You were almost killed," he remarked in frustration.

"Well, I am almost killed nearly every day. You don't need to worry, I'm not going to burst out weeping," Sansa retorted, crossing her arms.

"Good," Lancelot said, pulling the young woman into his lap. "I hate crying women," he added with a smirk.

"A Saxon woman never cries," Sansa commented, with a slightly bitter tone.

"I'm in luck then," Lancelot murmured, before kissing the young woman into silence.

* * *

><p>"So you and our Saxon girl, eh, Lancelot?" Gawain teased, as the Knights rode along, near the front of the caravan.<p>

Lancelot rolled his eyes, adjusting his hold on his reins. Sansa and Guinevere rode in a wagon, where they had begun conspiratorial whispering as soon as they were placed together. It made both Arthur and Lancelot disturbingly suspicious.

"We saw you kissing her," Galahad called, with a smile.

Lancelot traded an amused look with Arthur. "So?" he asked, nonchalantly.

"Leave it to Lancelot to be bedding the enemy," Bors said, loudly.

"She isn't the enemy," Arthur remarked, with a final tone that showed he meant it.

"And I haven't bedded her," Lancelot piped up. "Yet," he added, to the riot of laughter among his brothers.

A flaxen head appeared from the wagon they rode alongside. "You shouldn't push your luck, Lance," Sansa called, her eyes aglow with amusement. The knights began to laugh again, as Lancelot's cheeks colored.

"Quiet yourself, woman," he said, gruffly. Sansa merely smirked, before withdrawing into the wagon again.

The caravan was coming up on a lake, frozen in its entirety. They moved onto it, slowly, tentatively, waiting to hear the tell-tale cracks.

And they came.

Arthur shouted for them to spread out, for everyone to get out of the wagons. Lancelot immediately went to Sansa's wagon, helping her down. The drums of the Saxons were growing louder, and louder, and Sansa's face grew grim and pale, as she kept one hand curled into Lancelot's which kept her steady on the slippery ice.

"Are you sure you have no words of wisdom to impart to help us?" Lancelot asked, with a joking smile.

Sansa rolled her eyes. "Nothing that I haven't already told you," She responded.

"But you've told us nothing at all!" Galahad called.

Sansa huffed, exasperatedly. "Saxons rely on brute strength and numbers, not cunning or speed. There are no politics involved," She explained.

"Sounds perfect," Tristan interjected, to receive a glare from the Saxon woman.

"The king is the best warrior among our people. The only way power changes hands is with death. The King can be challenged for the throne, and if he is defeated and killed- the challenger becomes king. If the king dies of natural causes- the prince or heir will fight the challenger for the throne. It is all death. Always, never-ending death," Sansa spoke darkly.

"Your father is the king," Dagonet said, more as a statement, not a question.

"Yes," Sansa answered.

"Has he ever been defeated?" Tristan questioned interestedly.

Sansa shook her head. "No," she replied. "I was a child when my father became king. 15 winters ago, when I was only 5 winters old. I remember watching the fight. My brother was 15, he held me, tried to shield my eyes from the battle. My father was elder than the king, knew that he would lead our people into trouble if he was allowed to stay king," she explained, and all the knights listened carefully.

"It was a bloodbath. Within minutes, the king was killed. Then my father slaughtered the king's wife, and the young prince, a child the same age as I," Sansa continued, to looks of disgust.

"How could he do such a thing?" Arthur demanded out of disgust.

Sansa shrugged. "It was well within his rights. There can only be one King and Queen. Just as it is with Kings, Queens can only leave their titles behind with death. Unless my father wished to kill my mother in order to save the Queen, he had no reason to keep her alive. As for the prince, he would likely have grown up to be someone who challenged my father. Why would he spare him?" She replied, a surprisingly bitter bite to her voice.

"There is no honor in killing women or children." Lancelot spoke, looking at the Saxon woman with surprise.

"I agree," Sansa replied, squeezing his hand. "But my father cares nothing for honor. Only for his power and what it brings him. If it was honor he sought, my father would not be here," She argued, to which Arthur voiced his agreement.

"Is there any way to make the Saxons give up? Retreat?" Arthur asked, hopefully. Sansa shook her head, dashing that naïve hope.

"The Saxon way is to win or die. They will never retreat," She announced, to the solemn faces of the Knights around her. "If my father wins," Sansa spoke up, seriously. "He will leave no one alive. No man, woman, or child that can or will be able to swing a sword will be spared," she promised, her gaze centered on Arthur.

Arthur looked deep in thought, standing still. "Men," he began.

"Might as well," Dagonet spoke.

"They're so close, my arse is hurting," Bors commented.

"I don't like looking over my shoulder anyway," Tristan said, with a shrug.

In the midst of their preparations, Sansa was forgotten. And she took advantage.

Lancelot did not realize until he stood on the ice with his brothers, that he'd forgotten to say goodbye to her, and that she'd simply disappeared.

"Are you insane! You only have 7 men!" Ganis shouted.

"Eight," Guinevere said, smoothly, sailing over.

"Nine, actually," A heavily-accented voice remarked, as Sansa slid into the space next to Lancelot.

Lancelot's eyes went wide at the sight of her, and turned furious, looking as if he'd very much like to strangle her.

"Go back," Lancelot ordered.

"No." Sansa replied, turning away, preparing her quiver and bow.

"Sansa, go back!" Lancelot hissed, through gritted teeth.

"No." Sansa again replied. "What will you do, Lance? Take me over your knee? You cannot make me go," She teased.

Lancelot glared at her, as the others chuckled. "Leave her be, Lancelot. We could use another bow," Arthur spoke, causing his best friend to glare sharply at him.

"Oh, damn it all!" Lancelot growled, seizing Sansa's arm, pulling her to him in order to crash his lips onto hers. Sansa dropped her bow, in the heat of the moment; as she wrapped one arm around Lancelot's neck, and buried the other in his dark curls. The knights around them chuckled.

After a few moments, the pair broke apart, breathing heavily. "We will continue this _later_," he growled, squeezing her bottom, making it quite clear that he expected both of them to live through this. Sansa blushed brightly, before moving to pick up her bow again.

"So if we do not win this for the sake of our own lives, we should win this just so Lancelot can bed Sansa," Gawain called out, grinning.

"Why is it the man that always does the bedding?" Sansa retorted, rolling her eyes. "Isn't it just as likely that I will bed Lance?" She added, bumping her hip into Lancelot's. The man rolled his eyes, smiling fondly at her.

"Shall we, brothers? Sisters?" Arthur remarked, gaining their attention. The knights and two young women readied their bows.

The Saxons flooded from the forest, and on the ice. The battle would begin, shortly, and the knights and their friends would be tested- within inches of their lives.


	4. Part 1 Chapter 4: Love and Loss

**Win or Die**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa. **

**Part 1**

**Chapter 4**

A short line of horses made its way towards Hadrian's Wall, giving their horses a chance to catch their breath as they grew close.

One of their brothers lay over his saddle instead of riding in it. He sacrificed himself, in order to save them, and secure an escape. Dagonet had run across the ice, and began hacking at it, relentlessly. He was hit by several arrows, and fell into the water. He died there, on the ice, and there was nothing they could do to save him- even with the aid of a healer.

It made them want to fight even more. But there was no sense in throwing away what Dagonet had died for. So they escaped.

Sansa sat in front of Lancelot on his black stallion, leaning into his chest. Neither had been injured, thankfully, but both were weary to their cores. "Lance..." Sansa murmured, resting her head on his shoulder, looking up at him.

"Hmm?" He inquired, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"I think I saw my brother on the ice," she murmured, her mismatched eyes glistening with tears.

"Which one was he?" Lancelot asked, gently, laying an arm across her waist, pulling her closer to him.

"He has a shaved head, a braided beard, the same color as my hair. He would have been leading them," She whispered. Sansa couldn't help but fear her brother had fallen into the water.

"I'm sure he's fine, Sansa," Lancelot assured her. He didn't want to tell her he was sure he'd seen him too- especially when he didn't know his fate.

Sansa sighed, heavily, covering his hand with her own. "I hope you're right," she murmured in reply.

"Woman, all I can think of right now is getting to my quarters and into my bed." Lancelot commented, at which Sansa craned her head to look at him.

"And what of me?" She asked.

Lancelot chuckled. "I thought it was implied that you were included in that. That is, if you're willing," he replied in a husky whisper.

Sansa gave a smile, turning her head to bestow a kiss on the corner of his mouth, squeezing the hand that rested against her stomach. "I take that as a yes," Lancelot said, dryly, a grin spreading over his lips.

"If you keep acting so smug, my answer might change," Sansa retorted, a smile spreading over her face at the sight of the Great Wall, that Lancelot and the others called Hadrian's Wall. "How much farther to the fort?" She asked, shifting back and forth to get comfortable in the saddle.

Lancelot chuckled at her eagerness. "A couple hours' ride. We should be there by noon," he answered.

"Well, hurry up! I won't be going to bed with you if my arse is numb!" Sansa retorted, smacking Lancelot's leg.

"As my lady commands," Lancelot grinned, directing his horse to move faster.

* * *

><p>Sansa wandered into the room that Lancelot had just coasted into, glancing around. The room was small, but was nearly wall-to-wall with warm furs and weapons. Lancelot had discarded his pack on the floor beside the door, and was trying to remove his armor, but was having trouble reaching some of the clasps.<p>

Sansa closed the door, quietly, and went to him, pulling the clasps of his armor open with ease. He gave her a grateful look, as he shrugged off the chest piece, and placed it upon a stand. Then he went ahead and removed his boots, and began to undress.

Sansa blushed, her eyes going to the floor, as Lancelot removed his shirt. A few seconds later, she heard the shuffle of his steps before her, and he lifted her chin to meet his gaze with just a finger. He still wore his breeches, but only that. "Come here," he said, gently, drawing her into the safe haven of his arms.

"You know I would not force you to do anything you did not wish to, right?" Lancelot asked, his dark eyes showing a remarkable amount of tenderness.

Sansa reached her arms back to the ties of her dress. "I know," she replied, simply, beginning to pull the ties undone.

Lancelot smiled, kissing her softly, before he spun her in his arms, making her face away from him, as his skilled fingers deftly untied her dress, letting it drop to the floor. Under that, Sansa was completely bare.

Her body flushed red with embarrassment, even her shoulders blushed. Lancelot chuckled, placing butterfly kisses along her bare shoulder. Sansa shivered, letting Lancelot turn her to face him. Her arms immediately went up, to cover her breasts from his sight. Lancelot caught her wrists, pulling them down. "Never hide yourself from me," he said, in a low, seductive tone.

If it was even possible, Sansa blushed even darker, as his gaze roamed her body freely. "You are beautiful," he whispered, truly meaning it.

Something seemed to click in place in Sansa's head, and before she knew it, she'd thrown her arms around Lancelot's neck and was kissing him with a force she didn't know she had.

Lancelot stumbled back, falling onto the bed, which of course pulled Sansa along with him. The pair barely moved at all, except Sansa to straddle his waist, and Lancelot to stroke her thighs. Their kiss remained unbroken, with the two straining against each other, their need growing with every passing moment. When the kiss finally ended, with each in dire need of air, Lancelot flipped them over.

Sansa panted, pinned underneath Lancelot's muscular body. She could feel his hardened member against her stomach, as Lancelot began to brush his lips against her collarbone, and slowly move downwards. The white-hot coiling in her lower belly told Sansa she felt the desire just as keenly as Lancelot did.

"Lance…" she murmured, his name coming out a strangled mewl. Lancelot lifted his head, his dark curls gloriously mussed. He grinned, and began to work his way back up to her mouth. Sansa's fingers dug into his back, and he let out a pleased growl, before attacking her lips with his own.

Sansa reached down Lancelot's back, dragging her fingers lightly, till she reached his breeches, and slid her hands to his front, to untie the laces of his breeches. Lancelot watched, eyes dark with desire, as Sansa leaned forward, gently dragging the breeches down his legs, until he stepped out of them.

Sansa blushed, staring at his member, almost incredulously. Lancelot chuckled. "If you hadn't already told me you were virgin, the way you're looking at me right now would've given it away." He whispered, nuzzling her cheek.

Sansa groaned in embarrassment. "I'm sorry…I just don't know what to do now…" she replied, with a heavy sigh.

"Whatever you want to," Lancelot breathed, bracing himself above her with an arm on either side of her body. Tentatively, and with a nod of encouragement from Lancelot, Sansa reached out, grasping his cock firmly. Lancelot gasped, a shudder coursing through his body, nearly collapsing atop her; so violent was his reaction.

Sansa regarded him with wide eyes, not daring to move her hand. "Go on," Lancelot pleaded, through gritted teeth. Sansa tilted her face to press her lips to his, letting her hand trace his member gently, feeling him hiss against her lips.

Lancelot moved a hand down her belly, tracing the flat plains he found there, before continuing downward. Sansa gasped into Lancelot's lips, as she felt fingers sliding between her slick folds. He found her wet and ready, which made his cock twitch in pure anticipation. Sansa's hands fell to her sides, before wrapping her arms around Lancelot's back, pressing herself closer to him.

Lancelot played with her folds, watching her reaction, as she clenched at his back, her breath coming out in starved gasps. She went absolutely rigid, however, as he slid a finger inside her. Lancelot pressed a hand on her belly. "_Relax_. Relax your hips," he told her. _Gods, she was so tight, just around his finger too! He couldn't even imagine how it would feel when he buried his cock inside her._

Sansa took a deep breath and nodded, slightly. Lancelot waited, patiently, as the tension melted away, before he slid another finger inside her. Sansa bit her lip, wriggling silently. Lancelot spread his fingers trying to stretch her a little, get her used to the feeling. He curled his fingers inside her, hearing Sansa's startled gasp and following moan. With a grin, he continued. A few moments later, the coil in her belly tightened even further, white-hot heat spreading through her. A strangled cry escaped Sansa's lips, signaling her climax.

Lancelot removed his fingers, licking her juices from his fingers, as Sansa watched through wide eyes. "My innocent virgin," Lancelot murmured, darkly, lowering himself to press his lips to her. Sansa could taste herself on his lips, finding it a profoundly surreal feeling.

It was during her distraction, that Lancelot entered her. She cried into his mouth, her nails digging into his back. Sansa felt stretched, farther than she thought possible. There was no pain, yet, but she prepared herself for it to come.

"Sansa," Lancelot cooed, kissing her gently. "Relax. It will hurt more if you don't," he said, pleadingly. She trembled like a frightened bird in his arms. Lancelot gently stroked her cheek, gently. Slowly, she relaxed, and he smothered her with kisses. "This is the part that will hurt, love," he warned her, and she nodded, bravely, before crashing her lips onto his.

Lancelot began to push forward, coming to her barrier. With one more kiss, Lancelot broke through the barrier with a powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt. A pained whimper escaped Sansa's lips, and she buried her face in Lancelot's chest. His arms trembled, from the effort of keeping himself still, letting the woman beneath him adjust.

_She's so tight, so warm…so welcoming_. Lancelot wanted to lose himself in the pleasure of her body- but he didn't want to hurt her. "Lance…" she said, weakly, getting his attention. "Go on," Sansa told him, laying a timid kiss on his lips.

Lancelot seized control of this kiss, deepening it to a battle of tongues. It was during this time that he began to move, thrusting in and out, feeling more and more encouraged as Sansa responded more and more.

After a few minutes; Lancelot had his lover writhing beneath him, moaning like a banshee. This had him more in his element; though he had to remember that he was not just seeking release, from a barmaid or whore. This was something more. So he wouldn't endanger _this_…whatever it was, by treating her like something she wasn't. Lancelot leaned down to mesh his lips to Sansa's, noting with a pleased noise how she moved to meet him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and her legs about his waist, gasping into his mouth as he hit a particular spot inside her.

"Lance…" Sansa mewled, her hips bucking into his. Lancelot groaned, his climax quickly approaching, and by the look of it, so was Sansa's. Lancelot sped up his thrusts, feeling the familiar sensation of his balls tightening, signaling his coming climax, but he kept on, throwing himself into a near-frenzy, until Sansa reached her climax, endlessly crying out his name. He lasted only moments longer than that, grunting out Sansa's name, before his seed coated her womb.

Lancelot rolled off of her, an arm already curled around her neck to pull her right into his side. Sansa cuddled into his side, resting a hand on his chest as she laid her head on his arm. The pair panted, trying to catch their breath.

Soon, Sansa began to shiver, her naked body pressing closer to Lancelot's. While he enjoyed that, he was beginning to feel the chill in the air too. "Let me start a fire in the hearth," he murmured, nuzzling Sansa's cheek, who let out a delighted giggle.

Lancelot climbed from the bed, walking across the room in all his nude glory; proudly aware of the woman ogling him from the bed. Sansa shifted in the bed, dragging furs over her body, letting her drowsy eyes flutter shut.

Lancelot stepped back to the bed, he observed the fur bundle that concealed his lover. A smirk spread over his lips, before pouncing on the bed, prying a squeal from Sansa. "I'm gone for a mere minute, and you've replaced me, eh?" He asked, peeling back the furs, to get a look at the woman beneath them.

Her flaxen hair was absolutely tangled and chaotic, serving as proof of their activities, as did her swollen lips, and various love-marks that Lancelot had left on her. Her mismatched blue and green eyes were bright, holding such affection for him that it brought a slight pain to his heart. "It was cold," she offered, meekly, placing an icy hand against his skin, making him flinch. Lancelot flopped down in the bed, and Sansa promptly cuddled to his side, pulling the furs with her.

Lancelot let out a content sigh, resting a hand on her shoulder, as her head fell on his chest. With his other hand, he tugged the furs up higher, covering all of Sansa's bare flesh. Not long after that, he heard her breathing even and slow, before noticing her eyes had closed, and his lover had dozed off.

The sun peeked through the shutters, considering it was early afternoon. Lancelot was exhausted too, but there was too much going on in his head, for him to fall asleep. Tomorrow morning they were to be leaving. Leaving Britain forever.

And where did Sansa fit into all that, Lancelot wondered. He certainly wanted her to come with him. They could settle down in Sarmatia, near where Lancelot had been born- with his own tribe, if they still lived. But who said Sansa would want that? She was already so very far from her homeland, so why would she want to stray even further?

Lancelot sighed. Perhaps there would be discussions ahead. He glanced down at the woman in his arms. She seemed to be more grabby in her sleep than she was awake- her hand ran up and down his chest, completely unaware of the fiery trail it left behind.

Lancelot caught her hand, holding it to one place on his chest. Sansa stirred but did not wake, murmuring nonsense and snuggling closer to him. He cracked a smile, before stretching to kiss her forehead. He let his hand brush her back, his hand spread flat covered a large portion of the pale flesh. Under his fingers were many raised-edges of scars, and he let himself trace them idly.

They served as reminder how Sansa had suffered in her life so far. By the amount of scars, it was a lot. And Lancelot may not know why, but he knew that he wanted to protect Sansa from any more suffering.

Lancelot let himself fantasize about what he _did_ want for himself, and Sansa. He imagined themselves married, he could see Sansa's belly swollen with his child through his mind's eye. Simple things like that. Simple happiness.

Lancelot was lost in his thoughts and musings for nearly an hour, until the blonde in his arms began to stir. "Mmmm..." She groaned, stretching lithe limbs within the circle of his arms.

"Have a nice nap?" Lancelot asked, with an amused glint to his eyes, as he pressed his lips to her forehead. Sansa giggled, a lovely blush settling on her cheeks. Lancelot's hand slowly moved down her side, gliding over her curves.

Sansa smiled, trailing her fingers down his chest. "Again?" She asked, almost incredulously.

Lancelot's mouth turned into an ear-splitting grin. "You're with me, love. Expect this to happen a lot," he replied, before he pounced atop her as she squealed.

In the hall outside, Galahad and Gawain stopped before Lancelot's door as the sounds of feminine giggling filtered through the door. There was absolutely no doubt as to what was taking place.

"Lucky bastard," Galahad muttered, shaking his head.

Gawain tilted his head, looking rather thoughtful. "I think this is different for Lancelot," he commented. Galahad flashed his friend an incredulous look. "Haven't you noticed the way he looks at Sansa? He doesn't look at her like the whores, or barmaids he usually beds. It's different," Gawain remarked.

Galahad shrugged. "Fat lot of difference it makes to me. I'm still jealous." He retorted.

Gawain chuckled. "Well, I think you'll have far more women to choose from now on. I have the feeling that Lancelot will be a one-woman man from now on." He assured his friend, before walking away.

* * *

><p>The door to Lancelot's quarters slammed open, startling the sleeping couple from their slumber.<p>

"What in the hell do you want!?" Lancelot snarled, sitting up quickly, blocking Sansa's body from the view of Galahad, who stood at the door.

"Arthur wants you on the wall. Now." Galahad said, grimly. He left without another word, closing the door behind him.

Lancelot and Sansa traded confused looks, moving to climb out of bed, and get dressed. "What do you think has happened?" Lancelot asked, curiously, as he laced up the back of Sansa's dress.

Sansa shrugged. "I could only guess..." She responded.

"Well, we better go, then," he murmured, taking her hand and leading her from his room.

Lancelot and Sansa showed up on the Wall, where Arthur and Guinevere waited. Guinevere immediately moved forward, taking Sansa's arm, and the pair began to whisper in a friendly way.

"What is it, Arthur?" Lancelot asked. Arthur motioned for him to come closer.

"They're here," Arthur replied, simply. Lancelot and Sansa moved forward, peering out over the wall. Thousands of fires camped right outside the wall signaled the Saxons' presence. Sansa's face went absolutely white at the sight of it.

Lancelot immediately pulled Sansa into his arms. "We'll leave, Sansa. I'll get you away from here," he told her, plans already forming in his mind. Sansa pulled away, turning to Arthur.

"There must be something I can do, Arthur. I can…I can...reason with him, try to," Sansa requested, frantically, catching Arthur's arm. Arthur wavered, as Guinevere and Lancelot glared at him.

"Reason with him!?" Lancelot snarled, grabbing Sansa's arm. "He'd kill you! There is no way in hell I'm letting you go into that camp!" He told her, beginning to tow her back from the Wall. Sansa pulled away from him, violently.

"_Let_ me!?" Sansa demanded, her voice deadly. Lancelot froze, trying to determine what to do- Sansa had never raised her voice to him in anger- but she was angry _now_. "I don't know where you got the idea that you had a say in this, Lance, but you don't! This is _my_ decision!" Sansa shrieked at him.

Lancelot scowled. "I _don't_ care! I won't let you throw your life away! You are staying with me, and we are leaving in the morning!" He responded, reaching for Sansa again, who shoved him away, before turning to Arthur.

"Arthur, please! I know I can convince my brother, and with his help, we have a chance!" Sansa pleaded, grabbing hold of his sleeve.

"You're sure of this?" Arthur questioned tentatively. Sansa nodded.

"Arthur!" Lancelot and Guinevere protested.

Arthur ignored them. "It is a huge risk, Sansa," he reminded her.

"I am aware," Sansa replied, confidently. "I know what to say to my brother, I know what to say to my father. With Cynric's aid, I may be able to convince my father to seek power elsewhere," she explained.

"Sansa, you said he would kill you if you came back! What makes you think that he'll believe anything you say!" Lancelot argued desperately.

Sansa spun on him so fast, he swore she'd get whiplash. "I have to try, Lance!" She pleaded, hoping he would understand.

"But not at the risk of your life, Sansa! You'd be going in alone!" Lancelot retorted.

"I am a princess, remember?!" Sansa snapped. "Only my brother or father can lay a hand on me, and my father is the only one who would! He may be heartless and cruel, but he is cunning! He won't kill me!" Sansa exclaimed.

"If Sansa wishes to, she will go. You will not stop her, Lancelot." Arthur decided. A look of fury mixed with betrayal dawned on the dark-haired knight's face.

"Lance, please...understand," Sansa begged, reaching towards her new love.

Lancelot turned his back on her, moving back to the Wall. He did not see Arthur lead Sansa away- only heard their footsteps. He only saw the small form- his woman, he knew- scurrying from the gate towards the Saxon camp, fading into the darkness. His knuckles turned white, as he gripped the stone of the wall before him.

All that he thought he had was lost in mere minutes. He cursed Galahad for calling them from his bed, he cursed himself for not throwing the stubborn woman over his shoulder and tying her to the bed to prevent her escape.

But never the less he knew, even if Arthur had forbidden it, she would have found a way to slip out. Lancelot let out a snarl, before stalking back to his quarters.

Now, like it or not, he was staying.


	5. Part 1 Chapter 5: Cerdic's Wrath

**Win or Die**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa. **

**Part 1**

**Chapter 5**

Sansa slipped between the tents in the Saxon camp, until she found the one she knew her brother would be occupying, and crept in.

Her elder brother, Cynric, was already curled in his cot, probably seeking his rest for the battle the next day. Sansa moved silently, until she stood over him. She crouched next to him, reaching over to wake him, when a hand shot out, grabbing her wrist forcefully. Another hand shot out, grabbing her by the throat. "Cynric...!" She gasped, her hand going to pull at the one restricting her ability to breath.

Cynric sat up, peering at her, before he abruptly let go, before grabbing her shoulders. "Sansa?!" He demanded, incredulously.

"Cynric," She replied, with watery eyes, reaching for him with open arms. The man moved quickly, tugging her into his arms.

"Where have you been?! Sister, I thought you were dead!" Cynric questioned, shaking her gently.

"I was prisoner on a Roman's land, they captured me not far from the camp on my morning walk," Sansa answered, softly, as her brother set her down on the cot beside him.

"I saw you on the lake," Cynric remarked, quietly. Sansa lifted her eyes, frightened. "I didn't tell father." He added.

"If father knew, he'd have my head," Sansa murmured, and Cynric nodded in agreement.

"How did you get here?" He questioned. Sansa shifted, uncomfortably. "Arthur and his knights?" he asked, in a low growl. She nodded, shortly.

"One of them…Lance…" She began, sheepishly. Sansa knew she could be honest with her brother, he would not be angry with her.

"You love him." Cynric finished for her, an indulgent look in his eyes.

"I might."

"Why did you not stay with him? You would have been safer." He questioned.

His sister's face darkened, considerably. "He won't be staying to fight; nor will he let me. Father will force me to fight. I had to do _something_," She answered in their native language, the words tumbling out faster than she could control.

"I don't like it." Cynric replied with a snarl.

"You don't have to!" Sansa retorted, heatedly. "You have to take me to Father! He'll have my head, and yours- if we aren't on our way!" She ordered, jumping up from her seat. Cynric rose, slowly.

"Why are you so eager, Sansa? He will be less than pleased," He questioned her.

Sansa shrugged. "I'll lose my nerve." She answered, honestly.

"Then come," Cynric said, taking his sister's hand. He led her through the camp, amidst stares, and into their father's tent.

Cerdic, King of the Saxons, sat at a table, drinking a goblet of wine, idly. He lifted his eyes as his children entered the tent. He showed little surprise or reaction at all at his daughter's sudden reappearance. "Sansa. Where have you been?" He questioned.

"Father, Romans took her captive." Cynric commented, surprised at the lack of concern.

Cerdic looked up, disinterestedly. "Is that so? Is that why you killed your own people, on the ice?" He asked in return. At the stunned looks, he smirked. "Raewald recognized you." He offered as explanation, slamming his goblet on his table.

"Father-" Sansa began to interject, fearfully.

"Do they know you are gone?" Cerdic demanded.

Sansa shook her head. "No, I waited till they were asleep," she answered.

"Did one of the knights bed you?" He questioned. Sansa faltered, flushing red. "Did someone bed you?" Cerdic repeated, harshly.

Sansa nodded, with an air of embarrassment. "Will he want you back?" He asked. Again, his daughter floundered, searching for an answer.

Cerdic stood, noting the way she shrank back. "I-i do not know, father," she stuttered, as he approached her.

Cerdic reached out, wrapping his fingers around her throat. "Father!" Cynric protested, as Cerdic lifted her off her feet.

"If I can gain some edge by killing you, daughter, do believe that I will not hesitate." Cerdic growled through gritted teeth, squeezing his daughter's throat.

Sansa nodded, wildly, fingers scrabbling at his hands, her face turning scarlet. "Tomorrow you will fight." He ordered.

"Father, she is in no condition to-"

"And if you see that lover of yours, you will kill him. Do you understand?" Cerdic interrupted, as she continued to nod, as her face began to turn purple. He loosed his fingers, allowing Sansa to drop in an unceremonious heap on the ground.

"Cut your hair, woman, you go to war tomorrow," he growled. He glowered at Cynric as he went straight to Sansa's aid. "That's right, boy. You mind your sister," he hissed insultingly.

Cynric lifted his head, turning a look full of hatred towards his father. He said nothing, his arm around Sansa's shoulders, guiding her out of the tent.

Seconds later, the tent flaps fluttered open, as a man stepped inside. "My lord," he said, bowing to Cerdic.

"You were right, Raewald. The slut is sleeping with one of Arthur's knights." Cerdic growled, stalking around the table and sitting down.

Raewald said nothing, only stepping before him. "She's going to be the death of me, Raewald, I can feel it." Cerdic said, digging a hand through his hair. "Cynric is loyal to her, not me. If I kill her, I lose my heir. Things must be done quietly. And out of sight." He continued.

"What do you suggest, my lord?" Raewald questioned, his face expressionless.

"You will kill Sansa tomorrow. Separate her from Cynric during the battle, and kill her. For all he knows, one of those savages killed her. Rid me of this thorn in my paw, Raewald, and I will reward you. This I promise you," Cerdic said, lowly.

"She is your daughter, my lord. Are you sure?" Raewald questioned, carefully.

Cerdic glared at his subordinate. "Daughter or not, she is challenging me. She may not be saying anything, or being upfront about it, but I can see it in her eyes. Her loyalty is not to me. It's to Arthur, to the knight she's fucking." He replied, simply. "Do not question me." Cerdic growled. "Kill her and make it slow."

* * *

><p>Cynric eased Sansa into a seat within his tent and crouched down beside her.<p>

The fair-haired young woman was shaking, red lines outlining her father's handprint around her neck. She sucked in desperate breaths. "I won't let him harm you, Sansa," Cynric said, breathlessly.

Sansa reached a trembling hand to touch her brother's chin. "You cannot stop him, brother. I will not have you risk yourself for me in any case," she murmured, tracing a healing cut on his face.

Cynric shook his head, taking her hand and squeezing it. "It is my job to protect my sister. Do you not remember, Sansa? The day Father became king, he left me one charge. He ordered me to protect my sister, for it was the greatest honor a Saxon could take, by protecting his blood." He retorted.

Sansa smiled at Cynric. She would never doubt his love, his loyalty to her. And he would never doubt hers. "That was before Mother died, and his heart rotted in his chest," Sansa told him, gently. "Father will kill you if you go against him, even for me," she added.

Cynric stood. "That changes nothing, Sansa. Tomorrow, we will go to war. Tomorrow, you shall not leave my side. I have the most terrible feeling that something is being plotted against us." Cynric informed her. Sansa reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly.

"Against _me_," she corrected, and shook her head when Cynric opened his mouth to object. "You heard Father. My hair must be cut. Do the honors, brother?" She requested, holding out a dagger.

Cynric accepted it, breathing out deeply. He moved behind his sister, and gathered her flaxen hair in one fist. With one swift motion, Cynric lopped off all the hair that came beneath Sansa's chin. He handed the fistful of silken threads to his sister.

Sansa sighed, and began to weave them into a braid, or rope of sorts. "That is one of the most moronic customs we have, sister. Why long hair in women at war is considered weak while in men it is not, I do not understand." Cynric spoke, sitting opposite her, watching her as her fingers moved deftly.

Sansa smiled, bitterly. "It isn't the worst thing a woman might have to do before going to war. At least you shall have a token blessed by the gods, to protect you tomorrow." She replied, softly.

The hair cut from a woman's head, the day before going to war was made into a protective charm, to be bestowed upon the man she cared for most. It was a ridiculous and baseless custom, but anything believed to blessed by the gods was valued in times of war.

Cynric observed, emotionlessly. "Shouldn't you be giving that to your knight?" He asked, noting how darkly his sister blushed.

"He will not be there, Cynric. It is you I want to have this," Sansa retorted, quickly.

Cynric didn't answer immediately. "I think you underestimate this knight of yours, Sansa. I think he will be there tomorrow, all in hopes of finding his Saxon princess," he told her, quietly. Sansa did not look at him, shoving the braid into his hands.

"Where shall I sleep?" She questioned her brother, refusing to continue any further on the topic.

Cynric pointed to his cot, and Sansa went over and curled up on it without any questioning. Cynric fell into the chair that she had just vacated, placing the braid on the table. He pondered his options, briefly, before trying to figure out how to keep his rebellious sister alive.


	6. Part 1 Chapter 6: War

**Win or Die**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa. **

**Part 1**

**Chapter 6**

Sansa stood next to her father and brother, fully outfitted for the battle today. They stood at the head of the army, and the men of her family were conferring strategies.

Sansa was all nerves, gripping the hilt of her short-sword, her bow was strung across her back. "Sansa, you will go with your brother," Cerdic remarked, drawing his daughter's attention. Sansa nodded, without answering, her eyes meeting Cynric's, before they returned to scanning the horizon around them. "And Cynric, you will follow Raewald,"

* * *

><p>Sansa followed her brother through the ranks, the faces of her birth country's men flashing past her like the waves of tremulation fluttering faster and faster in the bottom of her gut. Each man picked up their weapons and stood at attention as Cynric and Raewald passed by them, steeling themselves for the heat of battle soon to come.<p>

Cynric nodded to one of the nameless men as they neared the ranks before his hand rested on the shoulder of his close friend, his sword, lifting it in the ever-ready air.

A series of closely timed first footsteps, one lost among many in the stomping march, started toward the gates of the Great Wall. Sansa swallowed her nervousness for the events before her, Raewald closer to her than before.

Looking around once more, Sansa trampled down the urge to vomit, instead focusing on the easy, powerful movement of her brothers' shoulders and all the muscles surrounding them. Cynric looked back to her, "Sansa," he called, gaining her attention. "To me," he requested, crooking his finger at her.

Sansa moved to Cynric's side, without speaking, feeling almost like a scolded child by the tone he used; which was exactly the one Cynric had used when she was naughty as a child.

To Cynric, Sansa's nerves were palpable. "Sister," he spoke, pulling her closer by the way of a hand on her shoulder. "It will be fine, I will protect you," Cynric promised her, softly, squeezing her shoulder.

"I have no doubt, Cynric," Sansa replied. "But I fear that it will not be enough. Not for you, not for me," Sansa murmured, her eyes wide with fear.

"My lord, my lady- look," Raewald called, pointing to the top of Badon Hill. Sansa and Cynric looked up, to see seven knights on top of the hill.

The Knight in black armor, sitting atop a black horse; Sansa recognized him, and it stole her breath away. _Lancelot_.

"Your knight is up there, isn't he?" Cynric questioned, in a whisper. Sansa nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from the striking figure he cut, even from a distance. "I told you, didn't I?" he asked, squeezing her shoulder again, seeming pleased.

Sansa turned away from the sigh, looking at her brother. "Cynric, he was so angry with me when I left…" She murmured. "I was sure he'd leave…I hoped he would," she continued. Cynric gave her a questioning look, but Sansa shook her head. "I was hoping he might use his brain…But I suppose I was stupid to think so," She spoke, turning to Cynric.

She forced the emotion down, her eyes becoming empty. "What are we waiting for? Let's finish this," Sansa called to Raewald, who nodded at her words.

* * *

><p>Screams echoed around Sansa, her vision tinted red, slashing wildly at anyone who decided to attack her. Cynric had been right beside her in the beginning, but slowly, bit by bit, they were pushed apart by the fighting.<p>

Sansa was careful to disarm, only killing when necessary. She was lucky, not to be hurt so far- only inflicted with bruises and cuts so far.

A hand suddenly clapped around Sansa's upper arm, and Sansa whipped around to see Raewald, and she relaxed. "What, Raewald?" She demanded, trying to yank her arm from his grasp.

"Cynric wants me to get you out of here," Raewald said simply, towing her through wave after wave of fighting.

"No!" Sansa cried, struggling to get away, as they reached the wall. "I won't leave him!" It was unclear, even in Sansa's mind, whether she spoke of Cynric or Lancelot; or both.

Raewald released her arm, only to throw her against the Wall. "I don't recall giving you a choice!" she heard him hiss through his teeth. Sansa's head bounced against the hard surface, before the rest of her body collided with the wall, knocking all air from her lungs, pain exploding across all her senses.

Sansa's body crumpled against the wall, and no one noticed as Raewald completely blocked her from sight; not that anyone would notice- they were understandably distracted. "Raewald…" she whimpered. "Why?"

A smirk spread across the man's face. "Because my king commanded," he answered, drawing a dagger, his intent clear.

Pushing past the pain, Sansa sprang at Raewald, aiming to knock the dagger from his hand, and succeeded- only because of the element of surprise.

Sansa was quick to draw her own dagger, preparing to plunge it into Raewald's neck, to find his hand around her throat, the other gripping her wrist. Raewald easily lifted Sansa off the ground, her legs kicking out aimlessly. She gasped, her face turning red, and then purple, as Raewald squeezed her neck tighter and tighter.

Sansa's sight was rimmed with darkness, and that darkness was growing larger and larger. She realized Raewald meant to kill her by choking the life out of her, or breaking her neck- whichever came first. So she struggled to do anything that might ease his grip.

But her attempts were weak, sluggish, as the oxygen deprivation affected her body. Just as the darkness was taking over her vision, Raewald stumbled forward, as if struck with something.

The hand around Sansa's wrist loosened just enough for her to force it free, and plunge her knife into the point where Raewald's neck met his shoulders. Almost immediately, the hand around Sansa's neck eased, and she crumbled to the ground, gasping for air.

Raewald still stood; teetering slowly, before crashing to the ground. Behind him stood Gawain; his axe ready to strike if the man required another blow to take him to the afterlife. When Raewald didn't move, Gawain lowered his weapon, stepping over him to Sansa.

"Gawain!" She gasped, taking the hand he offered to pull her to her feet.

"I thought you might need a little assistance," Gawain offered with a wan smile.

"Thank you," She said, bowing to retrieve her dagger from Raewald's neck. "It turns out my father is trying to get rid of me. I must go return the favor," Sansa remarked, her face downturned as she prepared herself to re-immerse herself in the fighting.

Gawain caught her arm, making her look back. "Lancelot is looking for you," he said, softly. At the name, the empty look in Sansa's eyes faded, replaced with something else, something Gawain didn't recognize.

"I hope to see him again," Sansa told him, wistfully, before tugging her arm away, and going in search of her brother. It became abundantly clear to Gawain that Sansa did not expect to live through this battle- or see Lancelot ever again.

Gawain swore, heading back into the fray. If he could reach Lancelot, maybe he could point him in her direction, and hope to all the Gods that it wasn't too late.


	7. Part 1 Chapter 7: Brave

**Win or Die**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa. **

**Part 1**

**Chapter 7**

It took Sansa what seemed like forever to find her brother. She had begun to wonder if he was one of the corpses on the ground that she had paid no attention to in her search for Cynric. But she found him. And the sight of him brought no joy to her heart- only icy panic that clawed at her insides.

Cynric was pointing a crossbow at Lancelot, who was fighting two men, leaving his torso completely vulnerable. "CYNRIC!" Sansa screamed, breaking into a dead sprint, her bruised and battered body protesting loudly at this.

Cynric either didn't hear her or ignored her, his finger pulling the trigger just as Sansa collided with him, making him jerk to the side. With baited breath, Sansa watched the bolt fly from the crossbow, flying across a fire, and embed in the man directly to Lancelot's right.

Lancelot whirled around at the scream of the man next to him, glaring across the fire to see Sansa struggling with her brother over the crossbow. His eyes widened at the sight of her. "Sansa!" he shouted, trying to move past those who engaged him in battle to reach her, but it was slow-going, at the very least.

"That was your Knight!?" Cynric demanded, as Sansa began to move away from him. She didn't answer that question, her brows furrowed.

"I am going to challenge Father, Cynric. Are you with me?" Sansa questioned him. Cynric regarded her with wide eyes.

"That is suicide, Sansa! You can't!" He exclaimed, grabbing her wrist, only for Sansa to shake him off.

"He ordered Raewald to kill me, brother. And he would have succeeded, if one of the Knights hadn't saved me," Sansa spoke quickly. Time was short, she thought, but couldn't exactly explain why.

Cynric's face contorted in rage. "Tell me he's dead or point me to him," he snarled, turning to glance around.

"He's dead, Cynric. I'm going to find Father. Are you with me or not?" Sansa questioned. Cynric's hesitation was all the answer Sansa needed. Sansa turned away from him, beginning to walk away.

"SANSA!" Came Lancelot's shout. Sansa whirled around, without meaning to, to see Lancelot attempting to reach her, pushing through the fray. Sansa knew if Lancelot reached her, there was no way he'd let her confront her father- and she'd lose all motivation once she was in his arms, she was sure of that.

She looked at Cynric. "Tell him I love him," She requested, before she turned again, disappearing into the fray.

"No! Sansa!" Lancelot yelled from the distance. The look in her eye when she saw him- it was resigned. And that put fear in Lancelot's heart.

* * *

><p>Sansa felt detached from her own body, as if she was watching herself from another's perspective, as she grew closer and closer to where her father fought. It was a profound feeling that she had, the anger burning in her breast, the dread and fear of facing her father, all mingling into one stomach-turning, nauseating feeling.<p>

But her feet kept moving, putting one in front of the other, leading her ever closer to him. Sansa recognized her father's current opponent, and realized things did not go well for him at all. Tristan had just been disarmed, and Cerdic was pulling him from the ground by his hair, putting Tristan's own sword to his throat.

Sansa knew what followed next. She had seen this too many times to count. Sansa moved forward, holding her sword out, till it nudged her father's back. Cerdic stiffened, unmoving. "Release him. Alive. And fight me," Sansa ordered, her voice strong, masking the fear and uncertainty.

Cerdic drew his sword away from Tristan's neck, releasing his hair, and the warrior collapsed to the ground without a sound. Slowly, Cerdic turned around, watching as Sansa back away. "Are you challenging me, girl?" He asked, his voice low and deadly.

Sansa swallowed, before steeling herself. "Yes, father, I am challenging you," Sansa responded, her voice miraculously unwavering.

"Then it will be your death," Cerdic remarked, seeming not entirely surprised by it.

"Or yours," Sansa retorted, the pair beginning to circle each other. It was apparent to anyone who might have been watching, that the Princess was grossly outmatched by her father. Which leads them to wonder…what in the hell was Sansa going to gain by doing this?

Sansa was the first to strike- but the blow was easily blocked by Cerdic. He responded in kind, landing a blow on Sansa's arm, as if trying to disarm her. Sansa cursed, keeping a firm hold on her sword's hilt, as blood began to gush from the wound.

"Why not surrender, child? You know you cannot defeat me," Cerdic taunted, chuckling as if to humiliate her further.

Sansa glared at her father, her cheeks reddening, feeling the hilt of her sword grow slick in her hand, as blood flowed down her arm.

The pair, father and daughter, traded blows, each blocking, until Sansa managed to land one on his already injured thigh. This coaxed a crow of anger from his lips, and quicker than a snake, his sword whipped through Sansa's defenses, cutting a deep line across her torso.

Sansa reeled back, yelping softly, and was slow to raise her sword back to her defense, allowing Cerdic to drive his sword into the soft flesh of her belly.

Sansa looked down at the sword embedded by inches into the left side of her stomach, with a detached sense of shock. A whimper escaped her lips, and a tear fell from her eye. Cerdic almost seemed surprised- as if he hadn't meant to end it so quickly.

Cerdic yanked his sword from Sansa's belly, causing her to fall to her knees, her sword forgotten on the ground beside her, her hands moving to staunch the blood flow. She raised red-rimmed eyes that were spilling over with tears to Cerdic.

"Father…" She said, in a pleading tone, as if asking him to end her agony.

Cerdic raised his sword above his head. "A whore traitor like you is no daughter of mine," He said calmly, before he let the sword fall.


	8. Part 1 Chapter 8: Woe

**Win or Die**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa. **

**Part 1**

**Chapter 8**

Arthur surveyed the battlefield with a wary eye. He found the Saxon King, and was surprised to see Sansa, his own daughter, battling against him. And the battle was not going in her favor.

Arthur moved as quickly as he could, knowing he was probably too late for his best friend's lover. He yelled out for Sansa when he witnessed Cerdic plunge his sword into her belly. He saw as her back hunch at the blow, before collapsing.

Arthur reached them just as Cerdic swung his sword down in a final blow. Steel met steel with a loud clang, as Arthur blocked the blow. "Arthur…" Sansa said, weakly, from behind him.

Everything in Arthur's nature screamed at him to tend to her, to save her, but he had her father to worry about first. "You wish to harm your own blood?" Arthur asked in disgust, as a smirk settled over Cerdic's features.

"I claim no blood with the traitorous whore," Cerdic replied, venomously, glaring past Arthur at the heap of a body that was his daughter.

"Father?!" Cynric demanded, standing behind his father with a stunned look on his face. He had always known that Cerdic didn't particularly like Sansa, or care for her, but he never thought he'd hurt her. Cerdic whirled around to face his son.

Cynric breathed heavily, his sister's lover right behind him. "Did you kill Sansa?" Cynric demanded, his eyes bright with a wealth of emotions, stepping towards his father. Lancelot's eyes widened, his eyes searching the ground for his loved one, desperately.

Cerdic didn't answer, and Cynric drew his sword. Cerdic abandoned Arthur, to face his son. "How much treachery from my own blood will I face today?" Cerdic hissed, his rage unmatched by anything Cynric had ever seen before.

"As much as it takes," Cynric snapped, his anger just as great as his father's.

Arthur cautiously moved backward, to Sansa's side, who had fallen from her knees onto her back. Arthur motioned to Lancelot, who then saw her.

Lancelot ran over to Arthur, seeing him kneel next to Sansa, and Lancelot dropped to his knees beside her, drawing her into his arms. All he saw was blood, he felt it on his skin as he squeezed her tight to his body. She coughed, a small dribble of blood dripping down her chin.

Sansa clutched at his sleeve, calling him back to the day they met, with her breath coming in shallow gasps. "Lance-" she coughed, reaching her free hand to him, an appendage drenched in blood, fingers shaking as they entwined with his.

"I'm here, love…hold on," he whispered, before standing with her in his arms, intending to get her to the healers. He had no attention to spare for the battle going on between Cynric and his father. "You insufferable woman…I knew you'd get hurt!" Lancelot ranted, quietly.

Sansa whimpered softly, as Lancelot stumbled. She lifted her bloodshot eyes to his. "You didn't find me so insufferable…yesterday," She said, with difficulty. She had trouble breathing, much less speaking, which made Lancelot's heart beat rapidly with fear.

Lancelot's hands were slick with her blood and it didn't take a genius to see she was fading fast. Her eyes were fluttering, her mismatched eyes glowing with pain.

He pushed himself faster, knowing her life hung in the balance.

* * *

><p>Lancelot stood off to the side of the healing tent, watching as a group of Healers, mostly Woads, converged on Sansa, talking loudly in their native language.<p>

Moments after he'd gotten Sansa on a cot here in this tent, her eyes had started to roll back into her head. He'd yelled for help, as her body began to convulse violently.

Now Lancelot was forced to wait and watch, tortured by the fact that he didn't know if she would live or die. An hour or so later, two Woad healers were still actively treating Sansa, when Guinevere came in to get various small wounds cared for. Then there was the fact that he was covered in her blood, blood that was beginning to dry on his skin and armor.

Lancelot jumped up at the sight of her. "Gwen, they won't tell me anything- please," he begged, his eyes desperate. Guinevere nodded, shortly, before moving over to the healers, speaking softly.

The healers answered, their hands still moving as they patched a wound. Lancelot watched, anxiously, for some sign of hope…or the opposite. Guinevere made her way back to Lancelot.

"They think she will live," She answered, grimly. Lancelot gave a relieved sigh, sinking onto the stool he'd been sitting on beforehand. "But it will not be easy. They say as long as she doesn't take a fever…the chances are good," Guinevere added, before she wandered away to be treated.

Lancelot settled back down on his stool, keeping a careful eye on Sansa and the healers who treated her. His mind went back to the battle, to the way she had looked at him, when he moved desperately to reach her, and she went on, leaving him. Lancelot knew, had he reached her, he would have pulled her from the battle, dragged her to safety, no matter what she wanted.

And that wasn't part of her plan, so she'd eluded him. And Lancelot was facing his worst fear at this very moment- Sansa being mortally wounded. No, no, his worst fear had been to find her cold corpse among the dead. So Lancelot was infinitely thankful for that. But she wasn't out of the woods yet, no, not by any means.

Lancelot brooded darkly, his eyes fixed on the cot that held the woman he loved. A hand landed heavily on his shoulder, startling Lancelot from his reverie. He glanced up to find Arthur giving him a concerned look. "What happened with the Saxons?" Lancelot questioned, though he couldn't really bring himself to care.

"Sansa's brother, Cynric, managed to defeat Cerdic. We had no intention of letting Cerdic live even if his son failed, so there was no chance of him getting away," Arthur explained, squeezing Lancelot's shoulder, before his hand fall away.

Lancelot felt a small sense of relief, but it faded quickly. "And Cynric?" he inquired.

"Collecting the remainder of his army and sending them home. He has no intention of leaving before his sister has recovered," Arthur answered with a smile. "Things are going well, Lancelot, thanks to Sansa," he added, smoothly, at which his friend gave him a questioning look.

"She spoke to her brother before the battle. He considers her position here, with you, as Saxon goodwill, an alliance, if you will," he explained, with an almost paternal sense of pride as he looked towards the cot that held the subject of their conversation.

Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "Sansa's position? With me? What is that supposed to mean?" He demanded, incredulously.

Arthur took a deep breath, preparing to explain further, but he never got a chance. "It means, Knight, that as long as my sister is happy where she is, I will not force her to return home, nor will I go to war against the ones who hold my sister's safety and happiness." A heavily accented voice remarked from behind the pair, who turned quickly in surprise.

The new Saxon King, Cynric, stood behind them, his face relaxed, as the whole day was spiraling down (thankfully) into an easier thing to deal with. Neither man replied, looking rather surprised, so Cynric spoke again. "But I warn you now, if my sister says the word, if she is hurt, anything…You can trust my word that we will crush you," Cynric spoke, his words completely sincere. Both Arthur and Lancelot stiffened at the threat. But Cynric smiled a moment later. "But I do not think it will come to that. I hope it will not." He added, showing that he did not show them any ill will.

Arthur smiled at the Saxon, relaxing, while Lancelot still looked suspicious, glaring at the brother of the woman he loved. "So, how is Sansa?" Cynric questioned, a hint of concern immediately leaping into his expression.

Lancelot shrugged. "The healers are saying that as long as she doesn't take a fever, the chances of her recovery are good," he explained, to which Cynric sighed.

Speaking of, one of Sansa's healers scurried over, and spoke in a mousy tone. All three men gave the woman confused looks. Irritation took over her features, and she repeated herself. "She says that they've done everything they can for now, that you can go to her," Guinevere called from a cot of her own.


	9. Part 2 Chapter 1: Healing

**Win or Die**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa. **

**Part 2**

**Chapter 1**

Lancelot had kept his vigil at Sansa's bedside, leaving only rarely in the last two weeks. A night after the battle, Sansa had fallen into a fever. It was only the skill of the Woad healers that kept her alive, and broke the fever. It had been a torturous journey, watching Sansa teeter on the edge for so long.

But now Sansa was healing, getting better. She rarely woke from her deep sleep, but when she had, she was in the throes of a fever. It had been two days since the fever had broken, and Sansa had not woken. It worried Lancelot in a way, but at the same time he was glad she slept through the most painful parts of her healing.

"Lancelot," Cynric, the new Saxon King, spoke, putting his hand on the dark knight's shoulder. The Saxon had been impressed by the knight's dedication to his sister, and was rather relieved that it was Lancelot he'd be leaving his sister to. Lancelot looked up from where he stared, at his hand entwined with Sansa's. He noted with slight amusement that the Saxon butchered his name just as horribly as his sister did. "Let me sit with my sister. Go take some rest," Cynric requested, gesturing to the door of the healing quarters.

"Send someone for me if she wakes," Lancelot requested, as he always did, raising Sansa's hand to his lips, before quietly leaving. Cynric slid into the seat he'd vacated, and gazed at his sister.

She had seemed so near death only a few days ago. But Cynric knew Sansa was a fighter, and she was fighting her way back to them. She lay in the bed, completely motionless, her short-flaxen hair spread over the pillow like a halo.

"You must come back to us, sister. I fear your knight will not survive it if you don't," Cynric murmured to her. As if she heard him, Sansa shifted in her sleep, a frown forming on her lips. He sighed, brushing the hair from her forehead, feeling the temperature of her skin at the same time.

Sansa's skin was warm, but not feverish. A good sign. Cynric thought she could wake at any time, but he'd been wrong before. "How is she?" A low voice questioned from the bed next to hers. Cynric turned, glancing at the man. The man had long, dark hair with two braids on one side.

"She heals," Cynric answered. "But she does not wake," he added, turning his gaze back to his sister.

"I owe her my life," the man commented, making Cynric turn and look at him again, more carefully.

"You are the scout, I have heard Arthur speak of you," it dawned on Cynric, and the scout nodded.

"Tristan," he supplemented. "Sansa saved my life on the battlefield, by fighting your father," Tristan explained.

"And she nearly paid with her life," Cynric said in reply. He did not say it with spite, but the scout's face tightened none-the-less.

"I would never wish it. I owe your sister a great debt, and with the life she's given back to me, I will repay her," Tristan told him, lifting his chin.

"How?" The Saxon questioned, rather rudely.

"Cynric!" A very familiar voice scolded. Both men's eyes shot to the woman who lay in the bed. "Don't be so rude!" Sansa told him, weakly.

Cynric's eyes were wide, jumping out of his seat to put his arms around his sister. "Send for Lancelot, and the healer!" He barked at one of the men standing guard at the door. "Sansa, you're awake!" Cynric cried, happily.

Sansa smiled, tiredly. "And I'm ready to go back to sleep. How long have I been out?" She asked.

"Two weeks," he answered, solemnly. Sansa's eyes went wide.

"What's happened? Father?" She questioned, going pale at the thought.

"Father's dead," Cynric told her as the Woad healer walked in, starting towards Sansa, poking and prodding at her. The look of stunned silence on his sister's face told Cynric he had to explain further. "After you fell, I challenged him. And won," he added.

"Yeah, after Tristan and I tired him out for you." Sansa said, dryly, shooting a weak smile towards the scout. But then she gasped, realizing what Cynric's words meant. "You're King! What has happened?!" She demanded.

Cynric chuckled. That was his little sister alright. "We're at peace, Sansa. I sent the surviving warriors home. All that remains is a small band of my most trusted men to accompany me home once you've healed up. And I'm staying until you're recovered. Everything is fine," he assured her.

But Sansa's attention had been lost. Cynric turned to follow her gaze. In the doorway stood Lancelot, breathing heavily as if he'd run the whole way there. His eyes were wide and glued to Sansa, his gaze disbelieving. "Lance!" She cried, reaching a hand towards him.

And as if a switch had been set off within him, Lancelot crossed the room swiftly, diving forward to take Sansa into his arms, pushing the Healer away. Within the safety of her lover's arms, Sansa began to sob in earnest. "I'm so sorry," she wept into his chest, feeling the tremor of his own emotion affecting his body.

Lancelot lifted his face to look at her, so Sansa could clearly see the tears in his eyes. "I swear, if you _ever_ do that to me again, I _will_ murder you," he promised, his voice shaking.

Sansa giggled a little, raising a hand to wipe tears from the corner of her eyes. "Well, wouldn't that be a little contradictory to what you want?" She asked. Lancelot let out a growl, before pressing his lips to hers, in a desperate attempt to memorize the feel of her velvety-soft lips against his.

The Healer stood off to the side, his expression sour after Lancelot had shoved him to the side in his haste to take Sansa into his arms. "How is my sister, Healer?" Cynric questioned, gaining the lovers' attention.

"The lady is healing well. But she is very weak, she needs plenty of rest, and plenty of food. The lady looks nearly starved to death," the Healer explained.

"When can I go back to my rooms? Rest there, I mean," Sansa questioned, amending her statement when she saw the objection rise onto the surrounding men's faces.

The Healer shook his head. "You cannot be moved yet, my lady. Your wounds are still too fresh, too liable to rip out your stitches should you be moved. What you need right now, my lady, is a good meal, and more rest," the Healer responded.

"Then what are you waiting for?! Bring her something to eat!" Lancelot barked, sending the Healer scurrying from the room.

* * *

><p>Late that night, Tristan was awakened from his deep sleep, by a soft gasp. He opened his eyes, looking to the bed to his right- Sansa's bed- finding his view of her obscured by the bulk of an unfamiliar man. The man had one hand crushed over Sansa's mouth, and was using the other, his fingers wrapped around her throat, to drag her from the bed, making the blonde crumple against the side of the bed. Her breath came out in terrified, air-starved gasps as he released her mouth, as his hand strayed to his side, revealing a silver knife that glinted in the moonlight.<p>

Tristan sat up, silently, cursing the protests of his still healing-wounds, pulling his dagger from underneath his pillow. "Good-for-nothing whore…" The man muttered, as Sansa struggled weakly, against the hand that clutched her throat, preventing any breath from reaching her lungs. "If you had just died of that fever, this wouldn't have been necessary," he growled, his hand tightening on the knife, raising it above Sansa's head.

Tristan's steps were silent as he closed in, stepping up behind the man, placing his dagger at the would-be assassin's neck. The man froze, his bulky body tensing. "Release her," Tristan demanded, and the man immediately dropped the knife, and loosening his grip on Sansa's throat. Sansa let out a shuddering breath, slumping against the bed. "Who are you?!" Tristan demanded, pressing the dagger harder against his throat.

The assassin let out a harsh laugh. "It matters not who I am. I am dead anyway," he replied, reaching for Sansa again. But before he could touch her, Tristan drew his dagger along the man's throat, killing him instantly. "Sansa!" Tristan then cried, dropping to his knees before her. Sansa's breathing was shallow, and the left side of her simple white shift was dyed red with blood. "Help!" Tristan shouted. "Help!"


	10. Part 2 Chapter 2: Doubt

**Win or Die**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa. **

**Part 2**

**Chapter 2**

Tensions were high. The fact that Sansa had nearly been nearly murdered, in the infirmary no less, was a cause of alarm among all the knights and their commander. Lancelot was beside himself, cursing himself for not being there to protect her, forcing the still injured Tristan to defend her.

Tristan was thankfully unharmed, no worse off after the encounter- but Sansa was another story. In the whole plight, the stitches in her side had ruptured, and her throat was bruised, but it could have been much worse, the men knew.

At the sight of the assassin, everyone knew who he was. Everyone except Tristan and Sansa, who had been locked up in the infirmary for weeks. It was a Saxon. One of Cynric's own.

Since then, the whole group had been safely ensconced in Arthur's cozy study, discussing, and quite honestly, bickering over the whole event.

Sansa was laid out on a lounge, as a Healer re-stitched her side, attending to her various scrapes and bruises. The men around her were arguing heatedly, only Tristan standing back from it all. He was seated on the floor next to the lounge where Sansa was laid out, keeping an eye on the young woman, finding he had no desire, nor energy to enter the fray, to lay out his own opinion.

And soon enough, the knights turned on Cynric. "Cynric, you assured me that your men would cause no trouble," Arthur said, seriously. The Saxon King's face filled with rage.

"You are insane if you think I would have allowed the men to stay with the purpose of murdering my own sister!" Cynric spat, pointing his finger at Arthur, menacingly.

"We know you did not, Cynric. But what reason would your man have to attack Sansa?" Gawain spoke up, trying to soothe the fight before it could break out.

"Cynric, you had to know our actions would have consequences. This being one of them," Sansa remarked, moving all attention to her. She pushed the healer away, weakly, as he tried to stop Sansa from sitting up. Lancelot rushed to her side, curling an arm around her to support her weight.

"What do you mean, Sansa?" Arthur questioned, his brows furrowed.

Sansa sighed, leaning into Lancelot. "I've told you before, Arthur. The Saxon way is to win or die. We surrendered, and our survivors were sent home like yellow-bellied cowards. All because of me," Sansa explained, her eyes lowering in shame. "Our people will not like this. It is against our way, to make allies, live in peace. Saxons are supposed to conquer. Cynric's decision, while wise, will not be popular." Sansa continued.

"But you are not to blame, Sansa!" Cynric exclaimed. "It is I!"

"If your own most loyal men feel this way, Cynric, imagine the dissention among your other subjects." Lancelot commented, his words true.

"It matters not if I am to blame, Cynric. They are looking for your weaknesses. I am yours," Sansa remarked.

"Sansa!" Cynric objected.

"You would be wounded if I died, Cynric. You are abandoning the Saxon way in hopes of procuring my happiness. I am your one weakness." Sansa soldiered on, ruthlessly.

"I think it might be best for you to take your men back to Saxony, and settle the issue." Arthur suggested, carefully.

"I _said_ I wouldn't leave until Sansa is recovered, and that will not change," Cynric snapped, angrily.

"CYNRIC! I am _fine!_ All I need is to rest and heal, I do not need you hovering over me like an overprotective mother!" Sansa exclaimed. Cynric spun around, staring at his sister.

"Look at what just happened, Sansa! You are not fine!" Cynric shouted.

"But I will be," Sansa soothed. "Cynric, you need to do what's best for everyone- not just me. You need to go home, before an uprising is in motion." Sansa told him.

Cynric's shoulders slumped and he nodded, slowly. "I'll leave at dawn." He gave in.

"And what of Sansa?" Tristan finally spoke up. "She can't go back to the infirmary. It wouldn't be safe," Tristan continued.

"I should think it's obvious, I'll be staying with Lancelot," Sansa spoke up. Cynric went to object, but Sansa cut him off. "I'll just be lying in bed. What's the harm in it being in Lancelot's room?"

"Well, that aside, Lancelot cannot be with Sansa every minute of every day. And after an assassination attempt, you should not be left alone. We should post a guard," Arthur suggested.

"We can all take time to spend with Sansa. It would be no trouble," Galahad remarked. The other Knights, plus Sansa and Cynric, looked quite startled at Galahad's suggestion. While Galahad and Sansa did not dislike each other; Galahad had not spoken up often in her presence.

Truthfully, Galahad had grown fond of the Saxon woman, his unease remedied by the knowledge that she had saved two of his brothers-in-arms in their last battle, nearly losing her life as a result. It wasn't as if he felt obligated to like her because of her heroic actions, but Galahad would admit his heart had grown warm towards her as result of it. She had stayed and fought when she could have taken the easy way out, leaving with Lancelot in the caravan. But she had stayed, and so had Lancelot- which probably had a quite a leveling effect on the odds stacked against them.

"Excellent idea, Galahad," Arthur praised, thumping the youngest knight on the back, causing Galahad to stumble forward. The knights let out a short bout of laughter as Galahad sent his signature brooding stare towards his commanding officer.

"So that's it? You send my brother away, and I shall never have any privacy?" Sansa remarked sourly, her lips pursing with her ill-temper.

"We'll have privacy enough at night," Lancelot responded, with a salacious wink. Cynric glowered at his sister's lover, even as Sansa herself glared at the curly-haired knight.

"That was not what I meant, Lance!" She snapped, pushing his shoulder weakly. Right now, all Sansa wanted was for Lancelot to _back off_. She hadn't been awake for more than a day, and his over protectiveness was suffocating her, his flirtatiousness souring her. Sansa just wanted to rest, not have her privacy and virtue bantered about.

Lancelot frowned, his dark eyes searching hers. This behavior of Sansa's was new to him. She had never acted in such anger, excepting the night before the battle, but this was nothing compared to that. Was something wrong? Had her feelings faded in some way? These thoughts flew about in his head at a dizzying rate, making his heart sink lower and lower into the icy water Lancelot had been prone to ever since meeting Sansa.

Sansa held a hand to her mouth, taking a deep breath, trying to quell the irrational rage in her breast. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "I'm so tired, I hurt, I just want to sleep...and I need time to say farewell to my brother," Sansa explained, making Lancelot's expression soften and his doubts disappear.

"I will take you to my quarters," Cynric remarked, walking over to his sister's side. Lancelot rose to his full height to protest this, his mouth opening to do so, but Cynric's glare stopped him. "It is the only proper chamber for her to be in- with her own blood. I will protect Sansa this night, before I leave on the morrow," Cynric insisted, silencing Lancelot's protest.

"I think that it is probably the best course," Arthur bid the Saxon king. "Go on, take Sansa to bed. We will speak come morning," The siblings gave no protest to this, Cynric merely scooped his sister off the lounge, carrying her from the room. "You should go, too, Tristan. I'm sure you would like to rest," Arthur added.

The scout also gave no protest, using the lounge beside him to help himself to his feet. "I'll walk you," Lancelot volunteered, only receiving an irritated glare in return. But he wasn't deterred, and followed Tristan out the door. The two Knights walked in relative silence for awhile, until they reached the halls of the barracks the Knights had called home for the previous fifteen years. "I cannot thank you enough, Tristan. For protecting Sansa," Lancelot spoke, his hands clasped behind his back.

"I didn't do it for you," Tristan snapped, striding ahead to his quarters, ready to leave the other Knight behind.

"I know that!" Lancelot exclaimed. "I just want you to know how grateful I am," he continued, earnestly, his dark eyes looking into Tristan's.

Tristan returned the gaze with a cold one. "I owe your little Saxon a debt, Lancelot. I could not do nothing and let her die. I could not live with myself if I had," Tristan responded, prying the door to his quarters open, taking two long strides inside.

"You still have my thanks," Lancelot insisted.

"No, I do not," Tristan retorted, slamming his door shut in the Knight's face.

* * *

><p>Sansa curled into the furs gracing her elder brother's bed. "Much more comfortable than the bed in the Infirmary," she murmured, hearing Cynric chuckle as he moved about the small chamber. He moved a chair in front of the door- a trick that Cynric had used before (And Sansa recognized). If someone tried to enter, the chair would move- scraping loudly against the floor, thus waking Cynric and giving him just enough time to arm himself.<p>

"Is that really necessary?" Sansa asked, as Cynric began to undress for bed.

"I don't think there will be any further attempts on your life tonight, Sansa. This is merely for my own peace of mind," Cynric answered, settling in a chair opposite the bed, dressed in a pair of breeches and light tunic.

Sansa gave her brother a sour look. "You are not sleeping there," She commented. Cynric lifted an eyebrow in challenge. "Aren't I?" he responded.

Sansa schooled her expression into a crestfallen one, looking up at him like she had when she was a child. Cynric frowned at her expression. "Will you not sleep beside me, brother, like you did when we were children? Before you abandon me in this foreign place, as only a piece of chattel in your alliance?" she asked pleadingly.

Cynric gave in, climbing into the bed, pulling his sister into his arms. "First of all, you are not chattel, Sansa. And I do not abandon you," he informed her.

Sansa curled her fingers into her brother's tunic, shooting a hesitant look up to him. "Then why can I not go home with you?"


	11. Part 2 Chapter 3: Farewell

**Win or Die**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa.**

**Part 2**

**Chapter ****3**

Dawn's first light broke out over the fort at Badon Hill just as an assorted group emerged from the stables. A young blonde woman was the last to emerge, not counting the dark-haired knight who trailed behind her, ghosting her every step.

She was pale, her corn silk hair hanging limply just beneath her chin; her mismatched blue and green eyes glinting in the harsh morning light. She wore a simple cotton shift and sandals, along with a fur wrapped around her thin shoulders to ward off the chill of the brisk autumn morning. Her gait was unsteady, her breath whistling through her teeth with every step. Every step was like a knife in her side. "Sansa, I wish you'd let me help you," Her dark knight, Lancelot, remarked from behind her. The blonde's only response was a look of disdain.

Sansa continued on her way across the courtyard, to where her brother and his men prepared to leave. The Saxon men had been given horses to aid their journey, which had lightened their loads considerably. "Sister," Cynric greeted with a sigh, taking her hand, and pulling her into the circle of his arms. He looked over her shoulder at Lancelot, who had fallen back a few steps. "Give us a moment, will you?" Cynric requested. Lancelot nodded, retreating across the courtyard to where Arthur, Guinevere, and an assortment of the other Knights stood.

"I don't want you to go," Sansa spoke, her quavering voice breaking on the last word, curling her arms around her brother.

Cynric could see the tears forming in his baby sister's eyes, and drew her closer. "And I don't wish to leave you. But this isn't goodbye, little sister. I will be back. Right now, Saxony is not safe for you. And once things have been settled- and matters dealt with, I will return," Cynric assured her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "And when I do, if you still feel as you do now, I will bring you home." He promised, running his hands up and down her arms.

"Really?" Sansa questioned hopefully.

Cynric nodded. "And I have spoken to Arthur, as well. I have made it quite clear that your safety and happiness are of the utmost importance to me, and should be to him as well. He has promised me that he will keep you safe and happy, treat you like the princess you are," Cynric added, knowing well the irritated expression that would appear on her face. And there it was, as soon as his words left his lips.

"Cynric, tell me you didn't," Sansa pleaded, her cheeks coloring with embarrassment. Cynric merely raised an eyebrow in response. "Don't try to make me angry with you Cynric, it won't work." She then told him, correctly guessing his motives.

"I'd rather have you angry with me than see your tears," he responded with a shrug. "But I see that it is too late for that," Cynric observed, as the first tear leaked from her eye.

His words seemed to set her off, making Sansa throw herself into his arms as she wept. Cynric patted her on the back, before extricating himself, gruffly. "It is best that I go now, sister," he told her, as Arthur and Guinevere moved towards them. Arthur, to say goodbye, and Guinevere, to comfort the weeping Saxon Princess. "Remember what we discussed," Cynric bid the half-Roman, half-Briton Commander as he mounted his horse.

Arthur nodded, moving back a step to where Guinevere comforted Sansa, putting an arm around the girl's shoulders. "You have my word," he said solemnly.

Cynric looked back to Sansa, who now stood straight, with Guinevere and Arthur's support. Her eyes were filled with tears, her lower lip trembling; as she stared straight at her brother. "Little sister...try not to be too stupid while I'm gone," he told her.

From that, Sansa gave a hoarse little laugh. "You as well," she replied, her grip on Guinevere's arm tightening as Cynric gathered the horse's reins in his hand, readying to leave. The Woad, in turn, drew her further into her arms, pressing Sansa's face to her shoulder. But Sansa strained from her friend's grip, to watch her brother, her blood, her best friend; leave her. She watched until his figure faded from sight, and then she wept again.

* * *

><p>After Cynric left, Guinevere and Arthur took Sansa deep into the Fort, where people scurried about, still trying to rebuild their lives since everything they knew had been razed by Sansa's people. Arthur led the women into a sumptuously furnished Villa. "This was home to the highest of Roman commanders, until Rome drew out from Britain. Now this will be the home of the Knights, as well as you, Lady Sansa." Arthur remarked, taking the Saxon's arm, and leading her down one hall. "This is all temporary, though. Because Merlin and I have been discussing a more permanent alliance," he continued, finding Guinevere with a noticeable glint in his eye. "And if all goes swimmingly, we shall be constructing a new home for Britons and Woads alike, should they wish to join us,"<p>

Sansa looked up at Arthur, her interest apparent, but seemingly dazed. "And Saxons?" She asked with the raise of an eyebrow. Arthur stopped in his tracks, looking quite intently at Sansa.

"You, my dear, are welcome among us forever, if you like," He assured her, but the firmness in his tone made Sansa suspect that her brother had shared her doubts with the Roman. "Here is my chamber, Sansa. And this one across from it shall be yours." Arthur told her, with a gentle smile.

Guinevere took Sansa's other arm, with a grin. "I spent half the night re-decorating it, Saxon, so you best like it," the Woad informed her, the pair sharing a smile at the nickname. Arthur and Guinevere guided the young woman into the room.

Her chambers were quite large; she had several areas tucked into the space. There was a lounge in front of the fire place, as well as a dining area, the other half of the room divided from view by dressing screens. Arthur and Guinevere guided her past them to find a grand bed, and a bathing area on the opposite side. "So you have some semblance of privacy," Arthur remarked, referring to her protest the night before.

"Thank you, it's beautiful," Sansa murmured, still in awe of the room. The floors and walls were granite, covered by exquisite rugs and tapestries. The tub for bathing was carved from granite as well, not some simple wooden basin. Her bed was quite large, covered with red sheets and plenty of furs. Everything about the room screamed 'expensive'. "Where did you get all this?" Sansa asked, sighing with relief as Arthur helped her to sit on the bed.

Guinevere gave a slightly guilty grin. "I went through the other rooms here. All of them had been abandoned, so there was plenty to choose from." She answered, moving to sit down next to Sansa. "Arthur, would you be a dear and ask the maids to bring hot water for a bath? I think that is just what Sansa needs, along with a good meal," Guinevere suggested, shooting the Commander a sultry look, causing his stoic expression to soften.

Sansa looked between the two with a confused expression, the wheels in her mind whirling.

* * *

><p>"Lancelot, Arthur wants you in his study," Galahad remarked, disturbing the dark-haired Knight from his daydreaming.<p>

"Oh? What for?" He asked, leaning forward to place his hands on his knees, looking up inquiringly at the youngest Knight.

Galahad shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Nothing urgent, I think. Arthur looked far too relaxed for anything else," he replied, before strolling on his way.

Lancelot sighed, before easing himself to his feet. He had gotten no sleep last night after the attempt on Sansa's life, and he certainly couldn't even try, without Sansa at his side, so he could assure himself of her safety. So after this sleepless night, Lancelot's muscles were tight as well as tired. He weaved his way through the fort, till he came to the villa that had housed Arthur and the other high-ranked Romans. It was now empty except for Arthur, who had given word days ago that the Knights could move from their dank, paltry barracks to the richer surroundings of the villa. The Knights were hesitant to do this, even if they knew the other Romans would not return.

Across the hall from Arthur's study and chambers was an open doorway, with maids coming and going with steaming hot buckets of water. Lancelot peered into the chamber with curiosity, to see Sansa sitting in front of a roaring fire, a plate of bread and cheese in her lap. At her feet sat Guinevere, and judging by the easy smile on Sansa's lips, the Woad was keeping her in good humor, which Lancelot was glad for.

He had not expected her tears at Cynric's departure. He had not thought that she would miss him so.

Without either of the women seeing him, Lancelot crossed the hallway to Arthur's door, where he knocked, before entering. "You wanted to see me." He said as greeting.

Arthur was at his desk, rifling through papers. "Ah, yes. Sit down, Lancelot." He replied, his eyes flicking up to his best friend for a moment, before shuffling said papers to the side. Arthur seemed distracted, but not worried or sad, Lancelot noted.

Lancelot flopped down into one of the overstuffed chairs angled to face Arthur's desk. "Is there something wrong?" He asked, dryly, examining his fingernails, before lifting his gaze to meet Arthur's.

"No," Arthur answered, seeming reluctant to continue.

"Then let me rephrase. Is there something you wish to talk to me about?" Lancelot questioned, beginning to become irritated, and a little bit worried.

"I talked to Cynric this morning. He expressed some concern about his sister," Arthur finally commented, turning his gaze to Lancelot.

"Such as?" The dark-haired Knight prompted, a bitter sneer gracing his lips. He didn't like that Cynric had gone to Arthur. He would rather have his lover's brother to come directly to him, if he had any concerns. Especially if they were about Lancelot himself.

"He wished Sansa to have her own chambers, to be kept safe and comfortable at all times," Arthur began, the expression on his face telling Lancelot that he did not wish to be talking about this.

"You mean chambers separate from my own," Lancelot supplied, feeling a surge of anger rise in his chest- but he squashed it down. Arthur hesitated, before nodding.

"It's not about you, Lancelot. It's, well, about any man. Cynric, and understandably in my mind, does not wish for his sister to be sharing her bed with anyone before wedlock," Arthur explained. "He fears for her heart," he repeated more softly, making Lancelot's eyebrows draw together. "You hold Sansa's heart, Lancelot, provided you don't squander it."

Lancelot's gaze shot up from his lap, his dark eyes burning into Arthur's green. "The two of you think I'm going to break her heart, don't you?" He demanded, jumping to his feet, sore muscles or no.

Arthur shook his head as he stood, holding out his hand in a calming gesture. "This is just a warning between two friends, Lancelot. For if you don't heed it, I am sure you will regret it," Arthur retorted, his eyes following the pacing of his friend's figure. He was besotted, Arthur could clearly see that. But if it was love- as Lancelot claimed, that was not so clear yet.

"Then tell me. What is this warning?" Lancelot requested, stopping to run a hand through his hair.

Arthur settled back into his seat, and motioned for Lancelot to do so as well. He remained standing. "If Sansa is not wed by the time Cynric returns two years hence, he will take her home to Saxony, and have her marry his choice there," Arthur informed him.

This time, the only indications of his rage was the flaring of his nostrils and the clenching of his fists at his side. "And does Sansa know this?" Lancelot questioned, through gritted teeth. Arthur gave a slow shake of his head.

"And she will not know," Arthur replied, giving a warning look to his friend. "This information is for you alone, to decide if you wish to act on it,"

"And if she won't have me?" Lancelot wondered.

"Then I suppose she'll have made her choice." Arthur answered, solemnly. With those words, Lancelot turned on his heel and left. He stalked across the hall to the chambers which he knew held Sansa, and barged in past the closed door.

Lancelot moved past Guinevere, who sat on the lounge opposite the fireplace, who protested as he moved past her. He moved past the dressing screens that masked half the room from him, and peered around in search of one certain Saxon woman.

He found her curled on the bed, her head lifted and her expression regarding him with a sleepy curiosity. Lancelot went straight to the bed, kicking off his boots before climbing in beside her, happily letting her wrap her thin arms around him. "Is there something wrong, Lance?" She mumbled, her accent heavier than usual. It seemed to be that way when she tired.

"No, my love." Lancelot answered, gently pulling the woman into his arms, tugging furs over them to keep her warm. "Go back to sleep," he bid her, pressing his lips to her forehead. Sansa seemed to accept this answer; and snuggled closer to his chest, and his warmth. "Do you love me?" Lancelot suddenly asked, making Sansa lift her head, giving him a dazed expression. Her pale blonde hair was rumpled all on one side; her tongue darting out to wet her lips. She looked so confused; so utterly adorable.  
>He didn't want to ask her again, so he just waited for her to answer. It seemed to take a few moments for the question to sink in, and he knew it when she rolled her eyes at him. "Of course I do, Lance," she murmured, sending a wave of relief through Lancelot's whole body, as she settled back down against his body.<p>

"Say it," Lancelot bid.

Sansa lifted her head again, to look Lancelot in the eye. He could see the exhaustion and frustration in her eyes. "I don't know why," she said dryly. "But I do love you," Sansa assured him, finishing the conversation swiftly by pressing her lips to his lightly, and then burrowing back into his arms.


	12. Part 2 Chapter 4: A Little Love

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa.**

**Part 2**

**Chapter 4**

Lancelot woke suddenly, in the middle of the night. His mind was fuzzy, and he rubbed at his bleary, sleep-filled eyes as he tried to figure out what had woken him. He found the space next to him empty. Lancelot ran his hand over the space where Sansa had been sleeping at his side. The space was still warm, telling him that she had not been up long.

He groaned, sliding the furs back, turning and setting his bare feet on the cold stone floor, and going in search of his lover. "Sansa?" he called quietly, hearing a soft cough.

"I am here," her heavily accented voice replied. Lancelot crossed the room past the screens, and found Sansa sitting before the dying fire. Lancelot moved around the couch, and took a seat next to her.

Sansa's face was pale, and covered with a light sheen of sweat. "I was hungry," she started, her breath short. "And I did not wish to wake you, you were sleeping so peacefully…But I only made it this far," Sansa continued, looking quite embarrassed as she finally caught her breath.

"Say no more, love." Lancelot murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of Sansa's lips, and rising to his feet. Going to the kitchen area, Lancelot made up a plate of bread and cheese for Sansa, carrying it over to her. Sansa flashed him a grateful look and ate in silence, settling down in the curve of Lancelot's arm as they reclined on the couch.

"Do you miss Cynric much?" Lancelot asked suddenly.

Sansa gave him a look of surprise, and squirmed a little, adjusting Lancelot's arm around her to a more comfortable spot for her aching side. "Yes. My brother raised me, for the majority of my life. He always knows what to say…when the world seems too big and I too small." She answered, thinking specifically of the pact he had made with her, just before he left.

Lancelot accepted this without comment, simply nodding. "And your father?" he questioned after a pause.

This time, Sansa shook her head. "As I said, Cynric raised me, mostly. After my mother died ten years ago, my father became a cruel man. It was like women had no use anymore, to him, and by extension, I became useless." She murmured. "But, before my mother died…he was a loving father. He taught me to swing a sword- and that no man who could not defeat me in battle was worth my time or affections. That man, I miss. But he died, ten years ago." Sansa continued.

Lancelot frowned at her solemn words, and decided to change the subject. "So, am I worth your time, my little Saxon? I do not think I could defeat you- for I do not think I could bear to raise an arm against you," Lancelot said in a sickeningly sweet tone.

Sansa laughed out loud at him, handing the plate to Lancelot to place on the floor, and she turned in his arms, carefully, to face him. "You _are_ worth my time; my little, dirty, Sarmatian," Sansa cooed, pausing, as Lancelot let out a bark of laughter. "For it need not be a battle of arms that you defeat me in. We have other, more pleasurable battles that we can and _have_ engaged in…" she trailed off, trailing her slim, tapered fingers up and down Lancelot's bare chest.

"Is that so?" Lancelot rumbled, a smirk gracing his lips.

Sansa nodded, her lips pursing thoughtfully. "Though, if you wanted to marry me, you would _have_ to defeat me in a battle of arms before any ceremony could take place," she added with a grimace.

Lancelot smirked, again, filing this information away for future use. "Well, why don't we save that for foreplay on another night, love, when you are fully healed." Lancelot responded, flipping them over, and trapping the slim blonde's body beneath him with a gentleness that paid mind to her healing body.

Sansa giggled in delight, dragging his lips down to hers and lacing her arms around his neck as he made himself comfortable with his hips cradled between her legs. "Speak no more," she bid him, nibbling on his bottom lip, making his eyes flutter close in bliss.

"Whatever you say, my lady," he breathed.

"What _did_ I say?" She demanded in mock outrage. Lancelot opened his mouth to answer, before catching the look in Sansa's eye, hurriedly shutting his mouth and moving to devour her lips once more.

When he had moved to press butterfly kisses lower and lower, Sansa rasped, "_Good_boy_..."_


	13. Part 2 Chapter 5: Winds of Change

**Win or Die**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa. **

**Part 2**

**Chapter 5**

"I haven't seen much of Tristan lately, nor have I heard anything. Is he alright?" Sansa asked curiously, as she soaked in the stone tub, Guinevere soaping up her hair.

Guinevere paused in her work, looking down to Sansa's mismatched eyes. "No-one's told you?" she questioned with a look of bewilderment on her features.

"Told me what?" Sansa demanded, making the water slosh dangerously as she moved. Guinevere reached down and put a hand on the blonde's slender shoulder, urging her to relax.

"Just that Tristan has refused to leave the old quarters of the Knights'. He's been strangely angry this last week. Arthur wants to convert the building into a home for the poor, but he can't while Tristan still haunts the halls," Guinevere explained, making Sansa sigh in relief. She'd feared that Tristan may have taken a turn for the worse, or worse yet, passed on.

"Do you know why?" Sansa inquired, sighing contently as Guinevere's fingers massaged her scalp. Guinevere voiced the negative. "Hmm. Maybe I should speak with him," the blonde wondered out loud.

"I think that's a wonderful idea. He has rebuffed everyone else," Guinevere said in reply.

"Then I shall. But let's just soak a while, first," Sansa commented. Her body felt absolutely boneless and blissful in the hot bath, and didn't want the feeling to end.

* * *

><p>Guinevere turned down the halls, searching for someone who she could have escort Sansa to the Knights' old quarters. While Guinevere agreed that Sansa was well enough to be up and around for a short while, she wasn't fool enough to let her do so alone. "Gilly! Gilly, come here!" the woman called upon sighting the young man of 13 wandering the halls.<p>

Gilly trotted over to Guinevere, a curious expression on his face. "Yes, my lady?"

"I have an important task for you, Gilly. Lady Sansa needs an escort to the Knights' old quarters. She wishes to speak with Tristan." Guinevere explained to the adolescent.

"And you want me to escort her?!" Gilly asked excitedly. Ever since the battle on Badon Hill, Gilly had been absolutely intolerable. He wanted to become a Knight, like his father, like his uncles. The adults of the fort had been using Gilly as a messenger, or informal squire, to keep him busy. Bors and Vanora had decided, with Arthur of course, that there would be no training for Gilly until they had solidified their new plans for a life here in Britain.

"Yes, Gilly. Sansa and I would be very grateful," Guinevere answered, smiling at his eagerness. Guinevere understood why he had been acting out- he only wanted to be useful. He and his siblings had witnessed the devastation that had followed the battle on Badon Hill. And they all wished to make things better.

"I'd be glad to!" Gilly agreed, following the Woad back through the halls towards Sansa's chambers.

Guinevere stopped the young man outside the open chamber. "Lady Sansa is still weak. If she tires, make sure she stops to rest, alright Gilly? Don't let her overexert herself," she requested of Gilly, who agreed immediately.

Guinevere then moved into Sansa's chambers, Gilly following after her. "Sansa, I've procured you an escort!" the woman called out. Sansa shuffled out from behind the screens, securing a cloak over her warm woolen dress. She flashed Guinevere a reproachful look.

"Do I really need an escort, Gwen?" Sansa muttered with her heavy accent.

"Give her your arm, Gilly." Guinevere requested of the adolescent, before turning to respond to the Saxon. "Yes, Sansa. I would not have you out there alone." The Woad told her firmly as Gilly crossed the room to offer Sansa his arm. "Gilly is strong for his age, Sansa. He'll help you on your way," Guinevere remarked, making Gilly preen at her words.

Sansa turned an indulgent smile to him, taking his arm and leaning on Gilly a bit. "Then I must rely on the honorable young Gilly," she stated. "Shall we?" Gilly nodded, leading the Saxon from the chamber.

Guinevere watched the pair go, laughing a bit at how the young man, at thirteen, was just a bit taller than the twenty year old Saxon warrior princess. Sansa was really beginning to be a bit of a trouble-maker, but Guinevere and Arthur both were becoming fonder and fonder of her the more trouble she made. She was like an errant younger sister to them both.

Guinevere and Sansa had been imprisoned together not so long ago, and there was a kinship born out of that, as well as the immediate sense of sisterhood that Guinevere felt whenever she spent time with Sansa.

Arthur had sworn to protect Sansa as well as keep her happy, and he had taken a personal interest in making sure he was keeping his vows, and spent at least an hour with her every day. The Roman had been utterly surprised on how little Sansa had been educated, especially with how intelligent she was.  
>Sansa could neither read nor write, and cited that very few in her homeland could. They had scholars to do their writings and readings, and they kept no records. Her father Cerdic did not know how to read or write, and her brother Cynric had only a basic grasp of it. Sansa had told Arthur that her elder brother had tried to teach her what he knew, but she hadn't been able to learn from the little he knew.<p>

So Arthur had made up his mind to teach Sansa to learn to read and write. He had started only a few days ago, and it was slow-going at best, but she had learned a few words, and to write her name. Sansa was devoted to the study of it, keeping a scroll of letters next to her better that she worked on learning from.

Aside from Guinevere, Arthur had not met a woman as capable as Sansa. As uneducated as she was, she was quite sharp, and capable of leading without any help from a man. She had become quite an inspiration to the women in the fort- seeing how she had fought alongside the men and held her own. She had nearly sacrificed her life in defense of them and the fort itself, against her own people.

The women in the fort were feeling empowered by the commanding example of Sansa, daughter of Cerdic. And as a result, things were beginning to change in fort at Badon Hill. The women were standing up, not letting their men make decisions for them anymore. Arthur could only believe that they were on their way to becoming an enlightened society.

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><p><strong>Please Review.<strong>

**A/N: I know it's been a while, and I'm terribly sorry. I did however go over the previous chapters and did some revisions, so if you wanted to re-read I'd be appreciative for some constructive criticism. I've been laid up with a broken ankle, so I am attempting to pay some attention to my fanfics. Especially since my work on my original novels are going nowhere. :) Please give me a nice review to keep me going.**


	14. Part 2 Chapter 6: Conversations

**Win or Die**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the King Arthur characters. I only own Sansa. **

**Part 2**

**Chapter 6: Conversations **

Sansa panted as she climbed another step, her breath coming out in visible puffs in the chilled air. She leaned a little bit heavier on Gilly, who patiently helped her up every step to get to the second floor of the Knights' old quarters. Where Tristan alone resided.

Sansa had never been up here. Lancelot's quarters had been at the very end of the hall on the first floor, and she had not spent even a full day before disaster struck. "Only a few more steps, milady," Gilly coached her.

The young man of just thirteen had been surprisingly patient with her. The journey across the fort had tired Sansa, and every stair had her wheezing. There was no pain though, telling Sansa she was healing well. "You said that five steps ago, Gilly," Sansa sputtered, her hand tightening on Gilly's arm as she struggled up another step.

Gilly put his other arm around her waist. "Look up, milady, and you'll see," he assured her. Legs shaking slightly, Sansa risked a quick glance up. Only two more steps. Gilly wasn't lying this time. Sansa took a deep breath, and took another step. "One more, milady." Gilly added encouragingly.

Sansa flashed her escort a menacing look. "Call me 'milady' again, Gilly, I dare you," she muttered, taking that last step onto the second floor. Gilly silently guided her to Tristan's quarters, knocking on the door.

After a reasonable amount of time, and no movement inside, Sansa raised her hand to knock on the door again. "I don't think he's here," Gilly stated, looking at the Saxon for what she wished to do. The last thing he wanted was to try the stairs again so soon. Sansa reached for the door latch, and found it unlocked.

"I will wait inside," Sansa declared, pushing the door open. She released Gilly from her hold, having caught her breath, and stepped inside. Tristan's quarters were barren. His armor hung upon a stand in the corner, there was an open chest in the opposite corner filled with haphazardly piled linens and clothes. A cot with only a pillow, blanket and a single fur were discarded messily on his bed. The room was chillingly cold- the window was open and the fire in the hearth had died out.

"I don't think he'll like that," Gilly said nervously.

Sansa crossed the room to the window, pulling the shutters closed. "You may go now, Gilly." She said absentmindedly, before turning to the hearth.

Gilly sighed, scrunching his nose at her, shaking his dark hair out. "Milady," he teased, giving a little bow. Sansa turned quickly with a mock angry look on her face, and Gilly scuttled out before she could reach him.

Sansa gave a hoarse little chuckle at the adolescent's antics, turning back to the hearth. Conveniently situated next to it was a pail of firewood, kindling and flint to light it with. She carefully kneeled before the hearth, and made a little nest of twigs and dried grass as kindling, and struck the flint to light it. Then she carefully lifted one log after the other into the hearth to ensure a crackling fire that would fill the room with warmth.

Once done with that, Sansa stood carefully and shut the door to trap the warmth within. Then she sat down on his cot (for lack of other seating), and wrapped the fur around her shoulders to keep warm until the fire would. Now all she had to do was wait.

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><p>Tristan was climbing the stairs to his quarters when he saw Bors' oldest son sitting on the first step. "What are you doing here, boy?" Tristan questioned. The Knights' old quarters had been empty since the others had moved out.<p>

"Lady Sansa is waiting for you in your quarters," Gilly answered, without lifting his chin from his hands.

Something shifted in Tristan's eyes, but no visible surprise crossed his face. "That doesn't answer my question," he responded gruffly.

"Lady Guinevere asked me to escort her here, because she was still weak. The lady struggled on the stairs. 'M waiting for her to help her back," Gilly explained, looking up at the Knight with his chin still cradled in his hands.

"You can go find something else to do, boy. I will make sure the lady gets back to her chambers intact," Tristan told him. The boy hesitated for a moment, before jumping up and flying down the stairs, eager to find something fun to do.

Tristan continued up the stairs, and came to stand before the door to his quarters. He wondered briefly at what the Saxon wanted, before he opened the latch and went inside. "Shut the door. You'll let the warmth out," Sansa ordered as soon as he stepped inside his quarters.

Wordlessly, Tristan obeyed and cast his eyes around the room. A fire had been started in the hearth, his window shuttered, and the Saxon princess was sitting on his bed with his fur wrapped around her shoulders. She had made herself quite comfortable in his absence. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Tristan wondered, leaning against the wall opposite the cot.

Sansa didn't answer at first, folding and carefully setting the fur next to her. Then she looked up at Tristan, folding her hands on her lap. "Why are you not moving into the Villa with the rest of the knights?" she asked bluntly.

Tristan blinked at her. "You get straight to the point, don't you Princess?" he said lowly.

Sansa shrugged. "You know I do not like to be called that, Tristan. As someone who has saved your life, and as you have saved mine- I think it might be acceptable for us to call each other by our given names," She informed him, pulling at the ties of her cloak and letting it fall onto the cot as it grew warmer in the room.

Tristan gave a slight nod at her words. "As I hear it, Arthur wishes to turn this building into a home for the poor- a home for those who lost theirs in the battle." Sansa remarked. "So why won't you move into the Villa?" she added questioningly.

"The poor can have the room in the Villa," Tristan bit out. "These quarters have been my home for fifteen years, Sansa. I do not tell the poor they cannot have the rest of the building." He refuted.

Sansa raised an eyebrow at him. "Ah, but there is only one set of chambers in the Villa. And I hate to say it, Tristan, but the poor are frightened of you," She reminded him.

Tristan looked pleased at those words. "Good." He uttered.

"As long as you are haunting these halls, Tristan, the people will not move in. Will you deprive these people a roof over their heads over sheer sentimentality and obstinacy?" Sansa queried. His eyes narrowed at her for daring to use the word sentimental.

"Your vocabulary is improving," Tristan responded.

"Arthur is teaching me to read and write," Sansa explained as answer.

"I did not know you couldn't," the Scout replied, the barest hint of surprise passing through his features.

"I always wanted to, but my father said I was clever enough that I didn't need to know my letters. Not that my father knew them, either." Sansa said indifferently.

"Clever, you certainly are." Tristan confirmed.

Sansa's lips quirked into a little half smile as if that was something she already knew. "So will you consider moving?"

"I will escort you back to your chambers, Saxon." The Scout stated.

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "Is that a yes?" She prodded.

Tristan shook his head at her persistence. "Not if you keep badgering me, woman." He grunted, taking two long strides to close the distance between them and offer her his arm. Sansa just raised her eyebrows at him before picking up her cloak again and securing its buckle before accepting his arm.

A grimace passed over her features as she stood, using Tristan's arm to help her. "I hope you are feeling better than I, Tristan." Sansa muttered, her free hand pressing against her ribs for a moment before joining the other on Tristan's arm.

There was naked concern on Tristan's usually impassive face. "Are you feeling so poorly, princess?" he questioned.

Sansa quickly settled him with a dirty look for using her title. "I am feeling weak, Tristan, but there is no pain thankfully." She responded. "I have yet to regain my strength and I am beginning to grow impatient," Sansa confessed. Tristan snorted at her insinuation that she was only _beginning_ to grow impatient, getting another dirty look as reward.

"Perhaps you should consider some light exercise," Tristan suggested, guiding her outside of his quarters. He secured the latch carefully, before leading her towards the stairs. Suddenly Sansa clutched his arm tighter, and he remembered that Gilly had said she had struggled with the stairs.

"Are you offering to help me?" Sansa asked in response, her teeth gritted as she took the first step down. "Because everyone else insists that I keep resting until I am at full strength again," she continued, her grip tightening on Tristan's arm again as she stepped down another stair.

"Some riding or light sparring would not hurt you, I think." The Scout offered as answer.

The surprise was evident on the Saxon's face, but Tristan wondered briefly why. "And you would spar with me, ride with me?" she asked. Tristan nodded, his confusion at her reaction deepening. "In my homeland, women only spar with women…" Sansa divulged, looking up at Tristan with an expression that he didn't understand.

She quickly looked away, focusing on moving down the steps. "If you object to sparring with me, I'm sure Guinevere could be persuaded." Tristan murmured. His mind was whirling with the possibilities, what sort of reasons there was for her culture to make such a rule.

Sansa shook her head wildly, sending her cropped blonde hair flying about. "I would like to spar with you," she countered, her face flushing a deep red. Tristan frowned at the way her face had flushed, wondering if the exertion of stairs was too much for her. He briefly considered offering to carry her down, but he would not injure her pride by doing that.

The Saxon Princess was alike to Tristan in that. Pride and a certain inflexibility was part of their character. Sansa had saved Tristan from certain death and had nearly died in the process. And she had never said a word about it until today, and only to ask Tristan to call her by her given name.

Tristan had saved her life too, when one of her brother's soldiers had tried to take her life while she still lay in sickbed. He had said nothing either- and he hadn't wanted to. He hadn't saved her so he would be recognized, and that was why he had become angry with Lancelot for pestering him about it.

So Tristan was careful to preserve Sansa's dignity and pride, he stayed firm for her to lean on him, and averted his eyes. Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, they waited a moment for Sansa to catch her breath. Tristan carefully checked for how flushed the Saxon was now, and was pleased to see her color had much improved.

They continued out of the building, and walked silently across the fort towards the Villa. "I've also heard that you've been very short with your fellow knights," Sansa remarked, her breath steaming the air. Tristan grunted. "What is going on with you, Tristan?" she asked with concern.

Tristan sighed. "I don't see why it is any of your business, Saxon." He grumbled. In response, Sansa dug her fingernails into his forearm. Tristan hissed in pain, glaring at the woman.

"Tell me," She demanded quietly to not draw attention to them, her nails still dug into his skin.

"My hawk has still not returned." Tristan bit out, pulling his arm from her hold. Sansa's features softened at his words, and she reached for his arm again. Tristan let her take his arm passively, his dark eyes watching her very carefully.

"Perhaps she is far away," Sansa suggested softly, restarting their journey towards the Villa she resided in. Tristan sighed again- it was not the answer he hoped for. "You must be patient, Tristan. It is same way you caught her to begin with, yes? If you wait patiently, she will make her way back to you." She continued.

Tristan gazed at the Saxon woman as they walked for one long moment, before looking back to the path before them. "Perhaps." He drawled, glancing up as snow began to fall. Sansa released Tristan from her grasp to pull up her hood over her head. Tristan felt the strangest sense of loss, and longing, as Sansa turned to look at him, guileless mismatched eyes of blue and green rimmed with long, black lashes.

"Is something wrong, Tristan?" the Saxon asked him. The mere sound of her accented voice sent a shudder through Tristan's body. Her brows furrowed at his reaction to her words, her expression became more questioning.

"No…Sansa. Everything's fine. Let me get you back to your chamber," Tristan said slowly, each word feeling alien on his tongue. She still looked doubtful, but she nodded nevertheless and took his arm again. The rest of their walk was silent, all but for the crunch of the snow they marched through.

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><p><strong>Just so you know, I am making shit up about Saxon and Sarmatian Culture. I will explain all in time.<strong>

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


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